Well that is quite the entrance for a Lunar would-be identity stealer. So much for that relaxing time, but it was nice to see Gift again in an environment more at ease with herself after all the concerns that have been ailing her of late.
[X] Your Friends - You pray that your friends, your beloveds, Wave and Song and more, make it through all of this unscathed. You pray that they will be safe, regardless of what happens and whatever hardships you must endure.
[X] Your Future - You are fighting for what you are owed and what you can owe your descendants, the weight of history not yet made on your shoulders. You are fighting for a husband or wife not yet married, you are fighting for temples and monuments not yet built, you are fighting for peace treaties and friendships not yet forged. You are fighting for what your predecessors spent and what you will rebuild, and for the tears that will go unshed, the houses that will one day adorn the worn-down streets of the City of the World's Desire once more.
I find it compelling for Holiest Gift to entrust the "small", personal things, and safety for them beyond her ability to control, to her faith and the grace of the divine, while bearing in her heart the resolve to act for aspirations bigger and grander than the present.
Nah obviously the twist is that Seven Cerulean is gonna eat Holiest Gift heart after all then the rest of the quest follows her awkwardly pretending to be Gift and trying to get real power.
the rest of the quest is a romcom slice of life starring laughing dancer and holiest gift in the lunar's comedic and increasingly desperate attempts to get gift to be more confident and get a date, with each episode ending on another failure and holiest gift none the wiser to dancer's rube goldberg-esque schemes
the rest of the quest is a romcom slice of life starring laughing dancer and holiest gift in the lunar's comedic and increasingly desperate attempts to get gift to be more confident and get a date, with each episode ending on another failure and holiest gift none the wiser to dancer's rube goldberg-esque schemes
i stand by my votes for the most poem optimized choices, but. When I reread the thread today this part made me tear up a little bit so I wanted to call it out as an attack.
You fight for the soldier so clearly unused to courtly speech nonetheless trying to explain himself to the Shogun.
News from the campaign in Yalpagesh seem to arrive faster than monsoon rain and if the news did not come from the prajuritkhwaday herself, you would find it hard to believe them all. Another battle with the Mirza's army should have seen him decisively on the run and his entourage in the prajuritkhwaday's captivity and the north of Yalpagesh should stand aflame and rebellions against their Yalpageshig lords threaten to break their control entirely. Delivered over time and in bits, rebellion by rebellion and battle by battle, it became easy to take them step by step and their absurdity became only evident when you stopped to think of them as a whole. Now they seem so distant to you, but the greatest news have yet to reach you. For on a warm summer day, in a somehow warmer summer court, another exhausted messenger reaches your court and pronounces before the court of the Shogunate that the city of Kemenanganih had fallen and that her armipotent ladyship, the prajuritkhwaday Two Brown Cutting voice, had entered the city and installed the prince Seizing-Prey-as-a-Falcon as Mirza of all Yalpagesh.
Following the course of a military campaign this way, piecemeal by courier and contextualized by the court and largely like- powerless to direct or shape the whole thing, is really compelling in a way I didn't expect. It really captures the anxiety of it I think, the way it's all pretty much concealed from the eyes of Holiest Gift and her mother, the way it all comes piecemeal and on a couple week delay. So much of it is just waiting, half blind to events taking shape, and with so much at stake. Going about your life and your day to day pleasures and obligations with the hugest sword hanging over your head, while like a couple hundred miles away people fight and die in your name.
I think the Shogun herself and the whole court are probably pretty concerned about Cutting Voice. About Yalpagesh basically imploding wholesale right next door (and man things must have been roiling behind the scenes for half the edifice to come crashing down with only a few hard kicks, and the open revolts in the North seem to confirm that), about Seizing Prey getting pretty much everything that's left that wasn't totaled out in terms of damage, and about Cutting Voice having a blooded and significantly bolstered army now. With a lot of momentum behind it and flush with a chain of pretty daring victories.
It's an open question imo because like- the Shogunate is in a lotta ways more heavily, openly ritualized than the Realm. Not to say that the Realm doesn't stand on ceremony or anything lmao, but that in the Blue Monkey Shogunate, this sorta reduced rump state pushed to the edge of their former territories, you really get the impression that that ritual both serves as mortar and a kinda engine for keeping things together, keeping things moving. But the actual bureaucracy or institutions behind it are weak in a way that they obviously aren't in a globe-spanning naval empire. The military as a discrete body, subject to a system of clear oversight and delineation doesn't seem to be a thing here. Almost everything seems to be centered around the palace itself, as both a governing body and physical location, and it's not clear to what extent the Shogunate is able to maintain a pool of people who do nothing but soldiering. Rather than levies or, like, effectively part timers or de facto mercenaries.
Which is a really roundabout way to say that I love the whole like- Gift feeling the slow scrape of the weeks while waiting for news in the intro. There's a feeling of real keen fragility to everything but life pressing on despite the shadow. Even if it's not certain how much longer it'll be able to. Maybe things will turn out fine sure! But there's a good chance they might not and everyone knows it.
"And what then, if our Shogunate fails its war against Yalpagesh, Anathema?" You ask, stammering on the first few words, "What would you be then? Running away from a fallen state, having accomplished nothing, is what you would be doing!" You involuntarily raise your voice on the last few words, feeling your control slip.
"But I would not have lost anything either, really. Nothing gained, nothing lost." She retorts.
"If the end result is nothing, then the beginning is surely pointless." You reply, doing your best to not let the desperation seep into the cracks of your voice.
"Could the same not be said for your own doomed war with Yalpagesh?" She coos, clearly entertained more by the debate than by thoughts of eating your heart.
"I did not set that in motion, all I can do is hope that it succeeds."
"So you do believe in the war, then?"
"I believe in my duty to the Shogunate."
"Do you now?" She leans forward, clearly interested in your answer, cupping your face in her hands again. "Let's put that to the test."
"Now, answer me truthfully. What are you really fighting for, my little princess, hmm?"
I just really like this back and forth tbh. The way the Shogunate contextualizes Anathema and how both of them are kinda toying with that context, how personalized it is I feel like? It's interesting and it feels really organic. I'm not sure if the Big Steppy Tiger Lady even has a plan on top of it tbh, she doesn't really seem like someone who's got a clear set of goals so much as capitalizing on a kind of opportunity while she chews things over.
the rest of the quest is a romcom slice of life starring laughing dancer and holiest gift in the lunar's comedic and increasingly desperate attempts to get gift to be more confident and get a date, with each episode ending on another failure and holiest gift none the wiser to dancer's rube goldberg-esque schemes
Does it end with Dancer realising that Gift has been pining after her the whole time, and the final update is guest starring @100thlurker yelling "REIWA REIWA REIWA!" as Dancer finally steps on Gift like she's always wanted?
Apologies again for the radio silence! I was absolutely bombarded with stuff, now I have a job and slightly less reason to fear for financial security, so the quest is more than able to continue unabated.
A Bright Star for the City of Cities, pt. 2
[X] Your Friends
[X] Your Future
Thou Sublime Presence, commander of the State and of Exalted heights and fortune, may the Dragons strengthen the foundations of thine State and height and fortune for ages together.
May I present you this letter that carrieth caravans of prayers with pleasant fragrance, and people with rose-coloured praises. The purpose of this letter is to state the following:
That earlier in Kahamanata [Khamnat], under the auspice of thine wisely-appointed and virtuous Satrap Protector, the sedition-mongering Yalapas of the land of beyond the mountains that mark the boundary of the domains withinthine possession had attempted by means of their ill-starred armies to intervene in the affairs of the lands assigned to the Satrap Subsidiary of the city of Arahanaga [Arhang], and had even sent out a force to this end. Boasting of their claims from their fire-shooting armies, they opposed the victory-laden armies of thine Satrap Protector sent out from the feet of the thronethat is the shadow of Mela upon Creation. Thus, many of thine faithful subjects died as they resisted like Mela in accordance with the verse, 'Where stands the pillar, it resists the roof´ and their souls were seized upon the wheel of reincarnation. Now, having seized the forts across the mountains, thine victory-laden armies repulsed them and we, the virtuously-appointed Satrap Protector sent for the commanders of parayuritis, the fortress-commanders and the generals and entreated them in accordance with the verse 'Behold! Upon the horizon is truce!'to not do violence upon the sedition-mongering Yalapas, and they swiftly entreated us underneath thine shadow to make peace with thine world-governingSublime Presence once more.
-Third letter of Satrap Protector Cathak Zamati of the Imperial Protectorate to Pacify the West in the Realm Year 767, following increased Yalpageshi probing expeditions across the mountains.
Laughing Dancer's face is close enough that you can smell her perfumed breath, her hands cupping your face so you can feel her knife-sharp nails prick against the back of your head and see yourself reflected in her eyes, that at this distance seem more like two balls of fire suspended in a black void. As she listens to your explanation, you desperately grasp for some kind of emotion or reaction in them, but much like a little girl trying to retrieve her toy lost in a well, you cannot reach any deeper than the surface. Whichever thoughts she has remain unknown to you; lost in her eyes. And then she smiles, this time without her teeth.
"You know what, little princess? I can respect that. There's something respectable about declaring to someone who has you on your knees and is open about wanting to eat your heart that you carry on solely so you can get what's yours."
You open your mouth to complain that that's not actually what you said and also you're on your knees because of those roots, not out of any desire to be kneeling, but a single clawed finger over your lips quickly robs you of the opportunity.
"You don't want to say something stupid now, little princess, do you, hmm?" You wisely decide to follow her advice.
"It's almost tragic in a way," she begins with a dramatic sigh, "that all these desires of yours are going to end in nothing. You know, what with Yalpagesh and all the schemes. But on the bright side, when your Shogunate is dead and buried, or your courtiers have all killed themselves off with their schemes and backstabs, there won't be any reason for me to eat your heart at all anymore." Her tone is the kind of sickeningly sweet sympathy that doesn't even pretend to hide the mockery.
"And you can even come live with me. I'm sure an evil soul-eating demon like me can find lots of things to use an adorable exiled princess like you for." She smiles widely with her teeth, a habit you are already close to finding tiresome if the sharp teeth didn't make it so terrifying. So terrifying, and so infuriating.
There is something about her bearing that makes it absolutely impossible for you to resist getting angry. Perhaps it is the way she condescendingly looks down at you or the way she mockingly feigns sympathy or the way she smirks at you like she already knows everything - actually just everything about her bearing now that you think of it - but whatever it is, it's definitely working. She has just the right kind of smug smile and says just the wrong things. You don't mind the humiliation of being forced to kneel before her, or the indignity of her using that slurred Eastern District accent rather than court speech, you mind how she rubs everything in, like she's just doing this to see you squirm under her. As if she has nothing better to do with her time. As if she's just bored and happened to catch you by accident and decided that was a good way to spend her day. So far, you have done your best to not give her the satisfaction of seeing you angry, but you're not sure if you can keep that up.
And you are very sure that she knows that as well.
"Just think! An exiled princess living in the forest as a maidservant to a soul-eating demon! Why, it's almost out of epic. Then maybe a Yalpageshig prince will defeat me and take you for wife before founding a new dynasty and claiming the continuation of the Shogunate." She almost muses that last part, as if she's more considering the scenario than really trying to taunt you anymore.
"Though then again, that's probably going to happen when your Shogunate falls anyways." And there the knife is back in your chest.
You open your mouth to reply. To challenge her, to say anything. But no words come out of your mouth, and she doesn't give you the opportunity, condescendingly shushing you with her finger again.
"Because at the end of the day, you're here because you're powerless, right?"
The words hit you harder than a spear through your stomach.
"You're here because you can't stop me. Your mother, she could tear her legs free with a small exertion and then grab the tiger by its throat like out of an epic or poetry. She could drag me around and fight-" You can feel small tears forming in your eyes while she speaks, barely able to pay attention anymore. You won't give her the satisfaction of seeing you cry like a child.
"Your great ancestors, they cleared the land and built you an empire. And your ancestors, they subjugated all the world and made its court their jewel. And your nearer ancestors, they fought the Realm with tooth and claw. Even your mother fought her fair share of wars and triumphed over foes near and far. And you, my little princess, you don't know what you're gonna do with your little empire of one city far too small and far too weak. So you dream of your distant ancestors, and wish your court was on horseback, not in a throne room. Isn't that right?" You clench your fists, knowing full well that if you dare open your mouth, it is not words but wails that will escape. The full weight of her words hit you like a monstrous beast. You can feel the tears and anger welling up; an ugly and unshapely lump of inchoate misery within your throat. Gagging you. Drowning you.
"W-what the h-hell do you think you know about me?" You manage to stammer out, the words toxic on your tongue like withering acid. The stammer only feeds the lump within your throat. The return of that ugly habit of speed from your miserable childhood is enough to make one of your nails penetrate the skin of your balled-up fists. You cannot see it, but you can feel the warmth spreading as you draw a tiny drop of red blood against your bleached skin. Underneath the leaden paint, your knuckles turn white.
"Oh, I definitely know enough to see I've struck a chord." She almost laughs as she says that.
"I know why you're so angry. So angry and so sad. It's very simple." Her face is a smug and cruel smile. You understand why she smiles with her teeth so often. She's as much a predator in her human shape as she is in the tiger's skin.
"You're angry because you're jealous." Your heart seizes up and the forest becomes silent.
"You're jealous because you're not your mother, not your ancestors." You can hear your blood flowing like a river in your ears.
"Jealous because you're not me." Something inside you snaps.
With a movement like lightning, you pull back your arm and strike her. Before she can react, your fingernails have found a home in the soft skin of her neck, digging into flesh and tightening around her throat and windpipe. You are ready to die. All form and skill has left your body, the thousands of hours spent practicing and training banished from your mind. In front of you, a pair of black voids suspended in balls of fire stare into your eyes, your delicate bone-white hands compressing around the bronze of her neck. You can absentmindedly feel the dull pain of your right palm where your nails drew blood against her skin. You blink once or twice to remove the tears from your eyes, your face a beastly snarl of rage. When you feel her resist, you grip even tighter, trying to pull her closer to yourself. The tug-of-war between you is brief. Brutal. You cannot hear the forest around you. A river of rage flows in your ears, and if she were to gasp for air, you would not be able to even register it.
And then she grabs your wrists, a faint silver glow enveloping you both as a little moon appears on her brow, shining brighter than any crown. Pulling your arms from her throat with unnatural strength, the moon on her brow changes its phases erratically; full in a second and half in the next. She crosses her other set of arms, which she seems to have dependent on whether she feels like it at the moment or not, over her chest as she looks at you with a stone cold gaze.
"You know. I was asking myself if I should spare you or not, or what I should do about you. Admittedly, all those considerations were before you tried to murder me." She smiles a wide, humorless and teeth-showing smile.
The anger is still rushing through you, that sweet and intoxicating alcohol of fury, and you respond by spitting her in the face. Something made less impactful by the speed with which she moves a third arm up to block the glob of spit and flick it away. With a fourth hand, she brings her fingers to your throat, almost playfully caressing you, running her clawed fingers up your chin without drawing blood. You can hear your heartbeat as her fingers run against your skin and briefly feel it stop when they settle on your chin.
"You know, I think it would be a shame for you to die here. You're so adorable when you're angry. Just the cutest little princess." She pats your cheek as if to pet you, then lets your arms free, and you topple to the ground, the power given to you by the anger fading away like sails without wind.
Deflated, you weakly look up at her, suddenly realizing how exhausted you are. You suppose that balancing on the knife's edge of death in front of a heart-eating moon demon does that to people, a part of you drily suggests.
"We can't have you tattling to everyone about me though, and it would be such a shame if you were to return empty-handed. All the explanations they would demand. Ugh, it would be so tiresome to listen to." She's barely even paying attention to you, choosing rather to pace about the clearing, as if considering her options before settling in place with a smile.
"Oh, I know just the trick." She suddenly lights up, stretching out her arm and closing her eyes, letting a mosquito land on it while she concentrates. The bright moon on her forehead shines even brighter as her entire body is bathed in a silver light and you watch in a mix of amazement and horror as the mosquito grows and changes shape; legs growing together and eyes disappearing into one another until a full-grown tiger much like the shape she took stands right before you.
"You know what to do, little princess." She smiles cruelly as she simply grabs the tiger, encircling both its forelegs with her arms and pinning it into place with the unnatural strength of the Anathema, its belly open to attack as the newly-created beast roars in fury and confusion.
You wonder if behind those feline eyes, a mosquito's multifaceted eyes stare out in bewilderment, not understanding the sensation of warm fur that covers its body, ignorant to the beating of its great heart pumping blood through its new veins. The thought does not last long, for soon you are more occupied by the feeling of your bindings loosening and retreating once more into the earth below.
You rise, uncertain at first, as she winks at you and you draw your dagger from its sheath on your left. For a second, you consider instead to impale the blade within her neck, but it does not take long for you to conclude that a woman who grapples with tigers and calmly removes hands from her throat is probably not very amenable to being stabbed or likely to die from a neck wound. So you wince internally, decide to be a good girl and do what she says and curse the cruel fate that led you here. You approach the tiger, raise the dagger high and thrust it in, the glory of such a close kill long gone though you're not sure if the fact that a moon-demon aided you or the tiger's effective incapacitation contributes more to its inauspicious nature. Pulling the dagger down the tiger's belly, you split it open and slit its throat, making sure to give the beast a swift death as you watch the last life ebb out of its body.
This had been a tiger for no more than a minute.
You stare down at the unmoving animal, not feeling particularly proud of yourself or princely for killing it. When you look up at Laughing Dancer again, she wears a new body; her tattoos and tiger eyes gone and replaced with darker skin and a pair of light blue eyes. You feel nauseous looking at it, knowing well the stories of how she would have acquired that shape and what she had intended to do to you. You look away, choosing to remain silent. The stench of the dead tiger fills your nose and you let out a silent, internal prayer to holy Hesiesh, begging for his resolve and serenity of mind. You recall the tale of Hesiesh subsisting in his cave on water droplets and stray wisps of grain, reminding yourself of the thousand demons that came to tempt him, scare him or otherwise turn him from virtue, all of which he rebuked. You turn to face her again and speak.
"Why have you stolen this body, Anathema?" Your voice is as cold as you can make it, monotonous more out of need than anything else.
"Well, there are really many reasons I decided to eat this particular morsel, though her form was given willingly. If you think me a cannibal I must sorely disappoint you, for the woman you see in front of you is named Two Brown High Peak, and her form was promised to me in return for her escape from the village into distant lands. In return for her name and memories, I gave her the form of a bird to use as she saw fit for a week, and she is now long away from the inherited debts on her family and the crushing taxes laid by your Shogunate that caused her to fall into destitution." The words hit as hard as punches. You open your mouth to object, to excuse yourself, to accuse her of lying but she beats you to it.
"In any case, why I chose this form specifically is because her village currently believes she was eaten by the tiger you were here to hunt in return, and I want you to return with me in her shape and use some of that princely charity of yours to cancel the debts and take her with you to be your retainer at the palace. And then you're going to devote that tiger of yours as a sacrifice to the local divinities and the divine Elders of this region. If you're gonna have to cling to this doomed state, I can at least make sure you're remembered as a good princess before the Yalpageshig conquer it all and kill you or take you away to be a court ornament… or I decide on something to do with you." She seems thoughtful on the last part.
"How are you to know I will not simply alert the rest of the court and have you killed?" You ask, trying to make yourself sound confident and impressive.
"Because I can sense you won't." She pauses for a second before continuing "And because if you do I will be gone in a few minutes and make you regret every remaining heartbeat of your life with fury." You believe her threat wholeheartedly.
"If I let you with me, I would let the Shogunate's greatest threat right into its very heart. You would eat that like you would have my own." Your voice is surprisingly stable.
"An impressive piece of metaphor, but I suppose I'll give you my promise of that much. I won't do anything to any of the members of your court. I suppose if it may please her divine Highness, you can consider me your guest." She says that last part with no small measure of sarcasm. For a moment, it strikes you that if this woman were not at heart a demon, you might have been friends. Her sense of humor reminds you of Wave. You flinch internally.
"Fine. Come with me then. Whether triumphant or unsuccessful, come with me to the Shogunate. It's not like I have any choice in whether you follow me or not."
"Correct!" She's all smiles again. "You don't! Don't worry, I'll do my very best to play your peasant and carry the tiger for you." Though her toothy smile this time is without the fangs, there is nonetheless a sense of dread to the expression.
Just the two of you, you return through the forest, letting Dancer-Peak be your guide. Carrying the bleeding tiger's corpse over her shoulder with no particular effort, she leads the way through paths that seem eminently familiar to her while talking at you about all sorts of subjects from the mundane to the disturbing, not particularly caring about your participation in the conversation. As soon as you come within range of the distant voices of a search party, her chipper manner suddenly changes completely. In the light of the afternoon sun, you see her bag slouch, her arms adjust to seem tired and exhausted, her entire posture modifies itself to seem submissive and weary. You hate to admit it, but that she could accomplish such a thorough transformation by only changing how she stands is more than a little impressive. You signal to the search party, calling over the few soldiers and their retinue of beaters and give them the narrative you and Dancer agreed on. You got isolated, your horse tripped and broke its neck while you survived, you fought the tiger in single combat and managed to eke out a win with the chance arrival of High Peak who had managed to hide in the forest but got lost and then make your way back. The entire story seems so full of holes to you, and you half-expect them to stop you at any minute and call your obvious bluff, but instead they merely thank the dragons for the return of the Shogunal heir and you make your way to the camp as the soldiers begin organizing beaters and villager couriers to alert everyone of your return.
When you are reunited with Song, your hunting party has set up a camp of their own, resting some miles outside Khwartanah. Resting as you recuperate from the day's events, you tell her the story of how you chased the tiger and eventually killed it with Peak's assistance. From her reactions, her raised eyebrows and unemotive demeanor, you are not entirely sure if she believes you but that at least won't matter too much. It is not the first time you or Song have lied to each other, and she knows you well enough to avoid prying into your affairs. Unless she judges it to your best interest, that is. It is not the first time, but you can still feel a pang of guilt. You are after all letting a heart-eating demon into the court of the Shogunate, and no amount of promises is going to plaster over that fact. Despite the fact that you suspect she doesn't entirely believe you, you nonetheless make your way back to Khwartanah and present the villagers with the now dead and speared decoy tiger and declare your intentions.
As you were made to promise, you sacrifice the tiger to the local god Mehan, revered in Khwartanah as having founded the village, in the name of the divine elders Surat and Thirteen Silver Phosphorescent Glory. They had been lovers and led a rebellion against the Shogunate before the capital was moved westwards, having both been known for their supreme grasp of Immaculate Law. When the corrupt Shogun could not defeat them in battle, he came to them in person intending to entice them to a peace by which he could either corrupt them or slay them under promise of peace. Instead he came to see the evil of his ways and restored righteousness to the Terrestrial Shogunate.
You preside over the evening feast, chanting the prayers, the wishes for the continuation of the Shogunate and the common benefit of all its subjects as the inhabitants of Khwartanah feast themselves on the benefits of the hunt. Great cutlets and spears of skewered lamb are served, and to the sound of the songs and praises, you can almost forget the day's events. Something made harder by your gaze's tendency to come to rest on "High Peak"'s face while she laughs and celebrates with the villagers, who do not see Dancer underneath her familiar face. Her acting is superb. Every single gesture, every single little quirk of her face, her manner of speech; all of it is different. A part of you wonders if she gained more from High Peak than merely her face and also remembers her memories in place of her own. Does she then have the same feelings for these people, for Khwartanah, that High Peak had? Questions for another time, you suppose.
Despite its prestige and central place in the hunt, once the tiger has been skinned for its fur, the remainder that is not turned into reagents and ingredients in medicine has little more purpose than being fed to the dogs. The claws, eyes, tail and many bones are taken away, but the meat is a feast for the village dogs. As you watch the animals eat the former hunter, you can't help but muse on how the tiger hunt—one of the ultimate symbols of a Shogun's martial prowess—ended with a fake tiger consumed by one of the lowliest of animals in the Perfected Hierarchy with less ceremony than you eating your own plate. If you were an astrologer or diviner, it would be hard to find such omens auspicious. Though you suppose that you aren't really a diviner or astrologer anyways, so perhaps one who is might say differently.
You doubt that part.
With the celebrations ending late, you go to take your rest and sleep in the great tents your party has brought with it outside the village. You have an uneasy night, constantly turning in your sleep and seeing Dancer's face in every corner. Though you manage to sleep, it is an anxious, superficial slumber; twisting and turning you wake innumerable times and do not remember any dreams when you wake early the next morning. Perhaps that is for the best. You would prefer not to dream after a day like this. Mayhaps you simply never fell deep enough into sleep to dream of anything of note at all. Or maybe there is nothing to it and yours is simply a tired mind overthinking. You do have a tendency to do that when worried.
As morning dawns, you command your followers to pack up the tents and make ready for departure. Before you leave by early midday, you make sure to gather the inhabitants of Khwartanah in its central green. Flanked by heralds, you silently declare through Song as your Voice that any debts of its residents will be annulled by your decree and that the land-tax will be reassessed and then reduced to a more fitting and bearable amount. You make a mental note to inform the chancery in Keinginan-i-Gehan of your actions here later and leave as soon as you are sure that most of Khwartanah is informed of your decision.
By the overjoyed reactions of the villagers, it strikes you that cases like High Peak might be more morbidly common than you suspected; a hopeless flight into forests and hills where men and women render themselves nontaxable just to escape the debts and taxmen. How common has this become? How many other villages does this affect? How much must they pay the soldiers now far into Yalpagesh? These are all thoughts that plague you from your place in the center of the column towards home and Keinginan-i-Gehan. Not much happens on the way home, as it did on the way to Khwartanah. The road is fairly well maintained, though here and there, the bricks have been replaced with packed earth maintained by village labor gangs.
That is, not much happens until the evening of the second day.
When you are only two days from home, the column stops in the middle of the road, a messenger running down to inform you only half a minute later of the cause of the stop. On the distant horizon, perhaps a few miles away, the tell-tale smoky signs of campfires snake their way into the sky. You can feel your heart stop in your breast as a terrible premonition comes over you. From the east and this close to Keinginan-i-Gehan, there are only two things so many campfires could mean. Either the army is returning from a victorious campaign in Yalpagesh, or you have just lost the war. Unfortunately, as heir to the Shogunate, things like this are exactly the sort of things that you are expected to deal with, and you gulp as you give the order to rearrange the column until you are at its head with a hefty guard. Sword at your right side casts a concerned gaze in your direction. Though she is Dragon-Blooded unlike you, she is far from enough to protect you in case it turns out to be the Yalpageshig and they are unwilling to negotiate. You ensure a heavy guard of forty—the majority of the sixty soldiers in the column—are by your side at the front, and to be entirely sure take "High Peak" with you. You don't particularly trust her, but if you get attacked, at least she will want to defend herself too. It's not the best of safety measures, but it's something.
And with those miserable preparations done, you set out to meet the army and hope to all the Dragons, the divine Elders and the innumerable divinities and dead of all Creation that it is merely the prajuritkhwaday returning home.
After little more than an hour of walking, you can feel your spirit sinking. Red banners, depicting the empty silhouettes of white jians splitting scissor-like in the middle and pentacles shining above them on a red field, flutter in the wind from every corner, every tentpole. Lesser banners of sunbursts crowned with crescents, elephants rampant with swords for tusks, boars crowned with golden suns and hundreds of others make for their companionship, dancing to the wind's melody. Here and there, your eyes spot a Shogunal banner, quickly identifiable for the blue borders that hem them in and the little azure monkey in the upper right corner. You would guess that there are all in all about forty or fifty odd banners, including many more which you cannot see. Circling the tents and the camp as a whole, thick walls of sharpened boles rise into the air and dissuade any attempts at assault. Smoke circles towards the sky, innumerable counters marking undeniably to the world—to the Shogunate—that the Sublime Semerwi State of Yalpagesh is here.
Ah, to be brittle glass, to shatter on impact. Merciful Dragons, spare us humans from such resilience!
A tear falls down your cheek, but there is no weeping.
A breath catches in your throat, but there is no wailing.
Ah, to only be glass.
You are paralyzed, struck by some sublime sensation of certainty, the weight of inevitability pulling down your shoulders. Compared to the inexorable majesty of ordained fate, what are the thrones of mortals? Where are the swords of heroes? You dare not look to your side, to see Dancer smiling at you through those stolen eyes, the kind lie of their expression not serving to hide the mockery beneath. You dare not look to your side, to see Sword's attempt to look calm, her adopted stoic mask of contemplation which you know well to hide the fears and fury boiling beneath. You dare not, and yet you see both. You should have listened to your hesitation.
You realize that you hear weeping. Weeping and silence.
The next realization is that you are responsible.
There is only one to lead them, only one to take responsibility, only one to take care of them, to see them defended and safe. And though you are surrounded by courtiers and supporters you feel so very lonely. But you grit your teeth, and force back the tears you wish to shed and tell yourself that should you die here, at least you may die the very ideal of a Shogunal heir before you get the chance to fail your empire upon its throne. You draw your sword and raise your voice, your voice breaking almost imperceptibly upon the first syllable like a wave against the odorous river deltas of Ta Vuzi as you ride forward and turn to face the throng.
You desperately try to think up a speech in the few heartbeats you have before you face them and must face just as you turn to the gathering that despite your mastery of all four high poetic styles, you do not have anything further than the opening access. What can one say in such a situation as this? No one prepared you for making what may be your very last address.
"Alert them to our coming, thou trumpeteers and musicians! They hath surely seen us already, give them a diplomatic salute! Thou cooks and hunters, prepare thee the surplus bounty of our hunt and set up camp! Not for the residents of the city but the Mirza of Yalpagesh, are they gifts now!" The court language feels awkward and clunky in your mouth, but the tell-tale rhythm of high speech nonetheless sings easily from your tongue.
You turn back towards the camp and ride forward alone, letting your own impromptu camp remain behind you as your eyes pass over the fluttering horsehair crests and red banners of the Yalpageshig encampment. You stop little more than perhaps a hundred paces by horse from the entrance, unfastening your sheath in entirety from your girdle and holding it in front of you in the Yalpageshig manner to signify peace between two equal lords. You hope that the fact that such a gesture is meant for two equal percüd lords for the Mirza to arbitrate between is not lost on whoever now claims the Four Black Banners of Yalpagesh. You wait there for a minute, and you see soldiers—in their colorful coats and heavy chain—gazing at you with curiosity. Though they do not know you, you can tell by their eyes that they recognize the sight of Shogunal majesty. You wait for more minutes, and you can feel your arm become tired. You start to wonder if this would-be Mirza is playing with you, or perhaps aiming to make you signal submission by letting the sheath and sword fall before even taking the chance to meet you. Your mind falls to what happened to prajuritkhwaday Cutting Voice. You suppose it doesn't really matter when the Mirza is here now. She could have thrown herself in the sea for all the impact she can make now.
Finally, your own diplomatic salute is answered with a customary annunciatory salute from the encampment, and the face of who you are to call Mirza becomes known to you.
Entering at the head of a two file wide column of soldiers, the first thing that strikes you about the Mirza is the force by which he already dominates your sight. Both lean and muscular, his tanned copper skin casts a contrast to the scarlet royal robe of a Yalpageshig sovereign, and the kidaris he wears on his head easily attracts your gaze to his face. With a sizable black beard on his chin, immaculately groomed and braided and his kohl-lined eyes, he casts a heroic sight like out of Yalpageshig frontier epics. On his robes and around his neck, hand-shaped chashmak amulets clatter, their wind-chime fingers moving in a subtle rhythm to the breeze and the gait of his horse. His painted black eyebrows, the same color as his hair and beard, only make his clear and ice-blue eyes all the more piercing; a stare like a spear. A few scars line his right cheek, looking much like they are no less than a few weeks or perhaps months old. For his part, he definitely looks the part of a man who has been leading an army for months on end with little end in sight, the thick scarlet shawl that frames his powerful shoulders doing little to conceal any of his muscles. A warrior-Mirza, this one. You muse to yourself, and try to pretend you aren't looking a few extra times at his chest.
You notice that his skin is subtly oiled—at least his hands and face—and catch yourself wondering how much of the rest of his body that applies to. You mentally give that part of yourself a smack. Yalpageshig princes oil their hands and face for diplomatic meetings. Oiling the body would be stupid.
And also you are here to negotiate for a dying state, not to negotiate a marriage. Not that you even know him.
"Great protectors are the Five Dragons, who govern this earth, who protect our Immaculacy, who protect man, who provide salvation for man, who made me Shogun, one king of many, one lord of many."
You barely manage to suppress your gasp at his Shogunal proclamation, doing your best to focus on his voice instead. Melodic and baritone, it is a perfect voice to command armies. You can feel yourself listening intently, even as he gives just the customary introduction of a Yalpageshig Mirza.
"I am Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign, the Great Shogun, Shogun of Shoguns, Shogun of the Nations of the Terrestrial Shogunate containing many kinds of men, Shogun of this Shogunate far and wide, son of Mirza Governing-Truthlike-as-Holy-Hesiesh, a Semerwi."
He does not wait for you to introduce yourself.
"And thou art Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela—holiest of holies her name the Accordant to the Call of Battle—thy beauty the edgeshine of a knife, thou bright star of the city of cities. Of thy coming I was aware, for the Dragons Fivefold and Immaculate have unto me a dreamlike portent sent. My brother, who sacrificed himself upon my spear truly did not speak kindly enough of thy radiance. Thou Shogunal moon-faced beauty with the stature of the swaying cypress and the eyes of shining jewels, I bid thee lower thy sheath and speak freely!"
It did not even strike you to think of it, but his court speech is perfect. You did not even notice the rhythmic and melodic tenor of his voice, but once you think of it, it is hard to stop thinking about. He is speaking in poetry, Third High Form. The praise is nothing you haven't heard before, but the stress of the situation must be doing something. You can feel that you have to stop yourself from stammering your response, something that would humiliate you utterly.
"Thou sovereign Mirza of Yalpagesh, my name and throne is known to thee, yet you saw not fit to mention my titles thousand, nor my acclamations three? By the notables and dignitaries of the world-governing Terrestrial Shogunate am I destined Shogun-Banu, not a cypress to be admired, nor pearl to be collected." Your voice is hard and cold, equal parts to stop yourself from stammering from the stress and to match his unrevealing face of stone.
"By the dignitaries and notables of thy city art thou Shogun, thou moon-faced cypress, but thy mother's spear-forest I have felled, and her blood-gardener I have dismissed. Thou star of glory, thou art not Shogun nor her heir, for ye fallen all within my sovereignty."
You can feel your heart seize in your throat. Not for a thousand years has the Shogunal title been contested in such a fashion without even an acclamation.
Before you speak, he recites a poem.
Waxing moon,
thou heavenly star,
thy hand reaches heaven,
but thy floor is me,
my moon.
The meaning is clear and all too painfully understandable. You cannot deny him that. With no army, nor the immediate favor of the divine Elders, the Dragons and the divinities, there is little you can do to resist him. Though your hand reaches towards the heavenly Shogunal title, it is entirely contingent on him permitting it. You realize that this would be the case no matter what terms you agree to. In any case, your right to bear the title would be entirely dependent on Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign deciding you should have it. You feel like stomping on the ground in frustration. The entire garrison of the city spent but a few hundred men, cast away in a lost war. You are Shoguns no longer.
And you would never be.
The realization strikes you like a thunderbolt, at once horrifying and liberating. Before you can continue your train of thoughts, he continues.
"Spare thee thine gifts for us, bring thee thine hunts and bounties to the residents of thine city. Bring thee them the news, that a new Shogun shall sanctify her holy office, thou ornament of the world. Or join thee my court, thou lady of fineries. Bury not thyself with thine ill-read mother! Thine tresses lasso-like, thine skin the finest ivory, soulful brightest star of all heaven, thine scholarship is famed so that souls whose eyes you entrap say 'she is not of this earth', why would you have me deprive Creation of such a radiance?"
"Such is my duty, for to the Shogunate do I belong as much as the lowest slave." You immediately answer without even thinking about it.
His face betrays the first emotion so far, as he narrows his eyes and nods affirmatively.
"If thou belongeth to the Shogunate as you say, then thou art mine belonging as my blade, my banner and my horse, and the choice lieth in mine hand, thou defiant cypress."
"Then take thee the choice in thine hand, thou hath neither acclamation nor Dais to call thine own." You answer coldly.
"And take it I shall. Mark thee mine word: Whether thine city bows of her own accord, or I bend her by mine hand, thou shalt be my price, thou moon-faced carnelian."
"Then take thee thine price, when thou hast her."
He smiles coldly and merely remains silent. Only in the silence do you remember that you are still holding up the sheath, having not obeyed his request to lower it. Your arm hurts from the tiredness, but you keep it up yet more and look into his eyes, using all your training to feign the cool effortlessness of a Shogunal court lady.
Just look like Wave would look, you tell yourself.
Shining jewel,
glittering for all.
The hand that grasps,
smothers light and the luster
You pause the poem, taking a pause to leave a breathless caesura until you notice the microfine annoyed movements of his brow and you can feel him catch his breath on the waiting.
is lost.
You finish the composition, taking great satisfaction in the annoyed furrowing of his brow at the poem. It is not a particularly deep or complex poem, but the meaning comes clear across; whether the Shogunate or yourself, he cannot lay his hand on it without changing his prize irrevocably.
"Name thee then thy terms, thou clever jewel." He is curt and to the point.
Article:
[ ] Your City - Ruling-Exalted-as-a-Sovereign will spare Keinginan-i-Gehan, promising to restrict his soldiers from sacking or looting as much as possible, restraining civilian casualties as is within his ability. This will not guarantee a peaceful siege, or that he will not kill any who resist. He will still seek to take the city through whatever means possible, he will just avoid doing damage to it.
[ ] Your Friends - Ruling-Exalted-as-a-Sovereign will spare your friends, whoever they may, as long as he has their names. He will do as much as possible to ensure that as long as they are within his power, they will not be harmed, nor will his soldiers kill them by accident. If they resist rather than surrender, he will seek to capture them rather than kill them, and he will aim to set them free if he successfully captures the city.
[ ] Your Family - Ruling-Exalted-as-a-Sovereign will spare your family, extending to your mother and many other courtiers. He will not be able to take into account if they decide to resist until the end of their lives, but will attempt to spare them as much as possible. He is also incapable of permitting them to live within his realm if he successfully conquers the Shogunate. He is willing to make an exception for you, but not for more.
You have gained a Minor Tie: Ruling-Exalted-like-a-Sovereign (Fearful Infatuation)
You spend the next hour negotiating and laying terms to each other, from horseback to horseback, in the fashion of the Yalpageshig where all treaties are made in the saddle. When you have given your demands and he has accepted, you bid each other farewell and you make your way back to the camp to inform them of the negotiations. There is silence among them as you lay out the meager terms you managed to negotiate, the intentions of the Mirza to lay siege to Keinginan-i-Gehan, his claiming of the Shogunal title and the amount of troops that you saw. You can all but hear the unsaid lamentations, silenced more by the shock of the war's change of favor than by any conscious attempt to hold back the terror and fear. As you speak, you lock eyes with Song, less out of a conscious effort and more of an attempt to look anywhere but at Dancer's face. You know what she will look like, how she will smile without smiling. You feel less like yourself and more like an observer, clenching your fist and letting the sound of the afternoon cicadas wash over you. You whisper to yourself and repeat the poem you composed for Wave and Song so many months ago.
Great ancestors
All great warriors
Ten-thousand great dragons gone
Spent before my time came
What for?
Oh, to be glass. Oh, to be shattered upon impact, spared such merciless resilience.
You give the order to turn and make way towards home, and slowly but surely the column reforms to make its way homewards with a slow and regretful gait. Here and there, there are a few futile attempts to restart conversation, to bring back the whispers and laughter that ruled the day just earlier, but they are stillborn every one. The column remains ruled by awkward silence, coughs and half-hearted attempts breaking the silence now and then, all the way to the gates of the city.
In Keinginan-i-Gehan you do your business methodically, dispensing your remaining leftover bounty from the hunt to soup kitchens for the poor, established in your name and in the name of the Shogunate. You barely remember the words of the pronunciation you make before the emergency court, only the cold cadence with which you deliver it. Perhaps the shock had yet to wear off, or perhaps the emotionless dignity of the chief heir is familiar enough to insulate you. Regardless, you leave the court earlier than protocol dictates, taking the chance to collapse in your chambers, drowning yourself in the usually-calming waves of slumber. But there is no calm night of sleep for you this night. You twist and turn in your slumber, mumbling and fumbling in the darkness, stumbling from one dream into the next half-formed mirage. As if struck by fever, you are less buoyed by the gentle waves of sleep than tossed about by a raging sea, a puppet or plaything of the rampant tides of your own mind.
In one instance, you are wandering by a lonely road, wearing all your fineries and riches. Yet no one passes you even the slightest glance, and the gates to the city are closed and barred from you. When you open your mouth to call upon the gates to open, they fade into the horizon, the road extending further and further into the distance. A dog walking on its hind legs, wearing a purple shawl comes passing by you, laughing at your predicament. The dog offers you a pomegranate, its tongue lolling about from its open, salivating mouth and you cast the fruit aside. Maggots crawl from the holed-out chambers as it splatters against the ground, slowly filling the road while the dog laughs at you and you fall into the writhing mass.
You wake for the first time.
In another instance, you are a fruit in a garden. The red sunset illuminates all the trees and plants, casting the entire garden in its scarlet glow. From a tall and swaying cypress, you wobble in the wind, peaceful and undisturbed. Blue-furred monkeys swing in the branches and crawl about on the ground. Nightingale-song fills the garden. A man splits you from the tree, his scissors separating you from your arboreal home as he cuts down the wind-swaying cypress, rooting up the stump and chasing about the monkeys. In one hand, he palms you and with another, he palms the evening sun, crowning himself with its fiery light. He plants a new tree, greater and stronger, letting it grow and grow until all the garden is beneath a sea of darkness. Seating himself at the top of its branches, he lets the garden die and monkeys cower in the shade.
You wake for the second time. And you will wake a hundred times more.
Only early in the morning do you resolve to not attempt the trap of sleep one more time, dress yourself and gaze at the city outside. The weather that rules the skies reflects your mood perfectly, calling to mind the events of the previous days; Dancer, Yalpagesh, the possible doom of the Shogunate. You clench your fists and fix your stare at the heavens, remaining silent rather than offering a prayer as you commonly would. As you prepare a cup of wine, you briefly see the face of the Shogun-Mirza staring back at you, his mouth a satisfied, possessive smile and his eyes a pair of suns. You feel your fingers tighten around the goblet, gritting your teeth as you mutter a curse.
Oh, to be glass that shatters.
Article:
[ ] The Weather is Stormy - Outside, the heavens are in uproar; a storm rules the skies and lightning splits the clouds. The weather is, much like your insides, in irreconcilable rage. Storming and thundering, you feel like casting rage in all directions. (This is a personality vote. Holiest Gift will be furious at Yalpagesh.)
[ ] The Weather is Rainy - Outside, the heavens are weeping; rains fall with no end and puddles fill on the earth. The weather is, much like your insides, in a state of abject misery. Lavishing a deluge upon the earth below, you feel like weeping and sobbing. (This is a personality vote. Holiest Gift will be depressed over the Shogunate.)
