[Exalted] The Dragon's Spite

EarthScorpion · Sep 17, 2019

X. The Lioness and the Viper

"Your plan?" Sei asks, flicking his tail.

"I need to get behind her," you whisper, more to yourself than to Sei.

And fortunately, you have something that's entirely expendable and loyal. It's quick to set up with the golem, and then you creep into the room on silent bare feet, keeping low. You retreat into the shadows under the oversized table, where the flickering light from the braziers doesn't reach.

Heavy feet echo down the hallway, utterly unmistakable for anything else. And then there is a scraping sound along with it. A sound that sounds a lot like a heavy blunt weapon like a goremaul being dragged along the ground.

You see the goddess Yanbu twitch, and you smile. She looks around wildly. "Ma-Ti, is that you?" she calls out. Your smile is vicious as you watch her take the bait. Oh ho ho, is there someone she's expecting? You just wanted her to run to protect her domain, where she could be blindsided by the viper already lurking inside. "You came back! For me!"

She seems to have forgotten entirely about Amigere, who's up against the bars of his cage, listening attentively. He can just stay put, until you heroically rescue him - and are hopefully lavishly rewarded with his attention for having put so much effort into saving his skin.

Yanbu rushes to the stairs that lead to the grand door, her sandals clattering against the stone floor. Your eyes narrow. You'll need to time this just right.

She's at the base of the first stone step when the golem appears through the doorway, dragging a bit of broken pillar behind it. You can see the shock and outrage from her posture. "Who are you?" she demands. The fires flare up, burning more brightly. "You shouldn't be-"

On your bare feet, you're barely noticeable when the golem is making its clattering approach and the goddess's attention is focussed on it.

You step in behind her, driving your right hand into her right armpit. Your fingers tear her her shabby robe. Spiritual venom surges into her flesh, and she screams in pain, staggering forwards. You snap in for a second blow…

… but no, she's twisting around and you miss the sacral chakra you were aiming for. There's still a grunt of pain, but you step back, keeping your guard up, rather than risk a counter-attack.

"You!" she snarls, blue eyes much more human than the rest of her face. "He sent you, didn't he?"

You… have no idea who this mad old goddess is talking about. Stepping back, you keep both hands raised, mimicking the viper's warning stance. "I'm just here for justice," you say. "You stole my man."

She's hurting, but she's got her hands raised too. Damn. She's strong enough that your venoms haven't immobilised her arm. Oh, you can see the limited mobility in her right arm. It pains her to move it, and so you should focus on that side. But you'd hoped that it would cripple her.

"Your lust profaned my temple!" she says, voice rumbling with hatred. "You dared strike me!"

This is grotesquely unfair. It's not even like you meant to do it. This time. It's not even like you meant to do it this time. "Your temple was already a ruin," you instead say. "I didn't even know it was one! And of course I struck you! Begone, godling. Give him back and maybe I'll spare you."

"I will have recompense for all you have taken from me, dragon-child!" she screams in your face.

You laugh at her. "Of course not! A forgotten godling like you holds no authority over me!" You step in, shawl scooped over your left elbow so it waves when you rock your hand back and forth. It's not a true Distracting Peahen Stance, but it's motion she has to follow. "Golem, come! Kill her!"

It slowly advances, and she swings at you. The fight begins in earnest.

Your right hand flicks in, but she bats your hand out of the way with her forearm. Your bare feet squeak on the stone as you shift, wary of your weaker leg. You have to cover that you always keep one side facing her, because you can't lunge off that side. Her stance is defensive, too. She's old, tired, and out of shape.

This, you think with gritted teeth, isn't a fight any of your masters would like to see. You probably both look pathetic.

But that's fine. The golem's heavy footsteps are a countdown, the beat of a drum until it's there and she has to fight two foes at once. You don't need to take risks - you can take advantage of the pressure on her.

She whips her hand around, in a telegraphed palm strike. You don't even try to block it - you don't want to let her connect - and give up the ground. Your flick with your left hand is more to deny her space than strike her. You're watching her, taking in her style as she tries to push you back, away from the stairs.

Her posture hovers just at the edge of familiarity. There's some Snake Style in it, but rather than keeping her spine rigid and channeling blows from a solid grounding, she's twisting and turning - coiling, even. Her open palms move defensively to bat away your strikes, and when she punches she twists her torso to direct force from her spiral motions.

Clearly she's watching you too. "So like a Viper to be treacherous," she growls. Sinking low, gathering spiralling strength into her core she explosively strikes the air with her palm - and it ripples. The sudden gust takes you in the stomach and tosses your shawl, and you stumble back, gasping from the gut punch. Nausea rushes over you; sweat beads on your brow. She's taking the chance to close in, alternating sides - but ah, favouring her left. She wants to strike with that arm. Heat at your back tells you she's trying to force you up against one of the braziers.

"Your style is… is unfamiliar," you observe, shifting your retreat as you bend your knees. Gather your strength. "Though there are some aspects that remind me… hmm. Some Southern mountain-dwelling sna-hai!"

Your banter was a ruse. You explode forwards with a kiai, fingers seeking her heart.

She twists just enough that you miss where they were aiming, and instead strike her breastbone. Her skin is harder than a mortal man's, and pain flares in your hand. And now you're overextended. She's on you, gripping your arm at the joint, her other arm around your neck. Her hot breath is on your ear; her drool drips on your bare shoulder.

Just a bit longer. Your stupid slow golem is nearly here.

"Do you know how long I've suffered because of you dragon-children?" she growls. She's stronger than you. Even aged, even withered, even half-mad; she's stronger than you. Your golem is coming and it's not fast enough. "How many years of torment I've suffered. This land was great. I remember the Anam. I remember the candles on the river; the cotton in the fields; the temples roofed in gold. You keep on coming back, dragon-child. Time and time again." She works your arm joint against itself, and your eyes fill with tears from the pain. "Every time you come, I am lessened. I hurt. I lose someone I love. You are an affliction. A curse upon-"

You slam your heel into her instep. It's not Viper; it's not Peacock. No, it's one of the defence moves that Graceful Willow style teaches, and it might not be respected as one of the Great Schools by Cheraki society nor be entitled to its own tattoos, but that doesn't mean it doesn't work.

Yanbu's grip loosens, and that's enough for you to twist in her hold. She certainly doesn't expect you to slam your envenomed fingertips into her right side, but her scream of pain as your hand comes away bloody is so satisfying.

But she's done her damage too. Your left arm is already swelling up, and it protests whenever you bend it. You work through the pain and punch her again and again, striking where your poison is tearing her flesh apart, until she casts you away just to escape.

You hit the ground hard, and the impact jars your weak leg. You don't roll properly, face screwed up with pain, as your world spins. With a solid kick, the goddess overturns the soot-blackened brazier and its coals spill out onto onto you.

A scream tears from your lips as you desperately roll away from rolling red-hot coals and skittering embers. Each impact jars your left elbow and tears blur your eyes. You can smell burning hair. It's you. Against bare flesh, the coals are agony. Your shawl starts to smoulder, but - thank the Dragons - it doesn't catch. Your breath rasps in your lungs. Strands of your hair have escaped from the bun, and fall, sticky and sweat-soaked, in front of your eyes.

Stomach muscles protesting, you pull yourself upright. Your skin is speckled with burns - minor ones, thankfully, but it's bad and could have been much worse.

Teeth gritted, you back away from the fire covering the ground. That's not friendly to bare feet.

Yanbu reaches out with one hand, concentrating hard. Her face screws up. Something starts to form in her left hand, collapsing in out of the air. It's a short spear, made from water. Your skin feels dry and taut.

"So," you gasp, "making… making that weapon… from water in the air. Nice trick. What are you, a nymph?"

She doesn't answer. She's moving more slowly than she did before, but now she has a spear. That's bad. That's very bad. The range alone is awful for you.

But she can't focus on you right now. The golem is here, dragging its masonry, and it swings at her. She doesn't try to parry that heavy lump of stone. Instead, the goddess leaps back, and the floor cracks where she stood. Balancing up on a fallen pile of scrolls, she levels the spear at its head.

And then gasps, as she recognises the face it wears. "Monster!" she yells at you. Or maybe at the golem, as it swings again, this time aiming at her legs. The goddess jumps over its swipe, but it hits the pile, tossing up ancient parchment and dust. With a fierce war-cry, Yanbu lunges down. Her water-spear cracks the golem's chest, but it feels no pain. One statue-like fist closes on the spear, forcing it away.

The goddess leaps back again, up onto one of the high tables. With a hiss of breath, she reforms the head of her spear. And then she screams - just as you feel a sudden whompth of heat behind you.

Because the fire is spreading. The hot coals have ignited the scattered parchments, and they've been carried onto other piles of debris.

Ancient tinder-dry paintings catch ablaze, their abstract shapes becoming red and orange and black smoke. The flames crawls across delicate paper icons and devour flaky silks. And then it's into the wall hangings, and the tapestries are being consumed.

Yanbu screams, a hateful, rage-filled noise. "This is your fault, souleater!" she roars at you. Like a fish in the river, she flips over the coals. She lands heavily, but doesn't rebalance herself. Instead, she breaks into a headlong charge, neglecting defense entirely as she tries to gut you.

Only your training saves you; your training and your well-honed flexibility. Her first lunge goes through your shawl, rather than your heart and you twist closer to her as she wastes her rage upon your feathers. Up close she doesn't have the advantage of reach and you grab her spear with both hands, trying to twist it out of her grasp despite the pain in your arm. She doesn't do what you expect; instead, she drops the weapon and knees you hard in your weak leg. Your vision greys with pain and you fall.

This time you roll with the impact, despite the spikes of pain from your burns. Despite that, the spearhead is less than a hand away from your face when it descends, splintering stone.

"This is your fault! They're burning!" she screams, stabbing again and again. The air is hazy with smoke and the crackle of flames. If you weren't currently desperately trying not to be stabbed with a spear, you would be appreciating the irony that what is threatening most to end your life is water.

You are not appreciating it, because of the aforementioned spear made out of stabby stabby water.

The spear comes down again, spraying you with shards of stone. Twisting your legs around, you hook them around her feet and yank. Yanbu goes down, and you stagger away, gasping for breath. She is also panting as she pulls herself to her feet.

"Look at me, god… godling," you wheeze, hands on your thighs. "You… you can't win this."

"You're weak, dr-dragon-child. Weak and soft," she gasps, levering herself upright with her polearm.

And the golem is behind her. Its marble arms close around her. She doesn't let go of her spear, but it traps her arms.

"I don't need to!" you call out. You're not quite as out of breath as you acted. But you're still thankful that the golem is here. "Crush her like a bug!"

The goddess screams as the golem tightens its grip. She tries to fight, but there's no mercy in this stone grip. It clenches tighter and tighter, and she screams, her water-spear collapsing into mist.

… no, it's not the only thing that's collapsing into mist. Her whole body comes apart, and then she's behind the golem. Her spear lunges, piercing it through the shoulder. The entire arm is cleaved straight from its stone body, and she spins into a kick that knocks it to the ground. Then her spear is raised, and she pins your golem to the ground like a bug. She steps away, spear buried in its body. The stupid thing tries to pull itself to its feet, but with only one arm, the pillar of water holds it there.

Yanbu pants, a mad look in her blue eyes. Blood drips from her mouth. "See that, sorceress! See what your soul-slaves are worth!" She closes on you, robes stained with her own blood, hands raised more to throttle you than in a formal fighting school. "You will pay for your sins! Oh, you will! Usurper, traitor to the order of heaven and-"

You whip your shawl around you, a Peacock School technique if there ever is one, but the straight hand which comes out from behind the fabric is pure Viper. Your biting right hand jabs her in the armpit again, and this time the spray of blood tells you that she's weakening.

"Oh my, you look lopsided," you say, smirking. "Look at you. Are you sure you don't want me to do the other side?"

Red stains her tattered robe; her arm hangs useless by her side. Her leonine face is twisted in agony. "Profane coward," she snarls. "Poison and treachery. If you had any honour…"

You whip your shawl off, tossing it in her face. She swipes at it, tearing it from the air, but in that moment of distraction you're in close. So close you can smell her stink, feel the air brush against your face from her flailing arms. Your hands lash out, jabbing points in her torso with your fingertips. Each blow is accompanied by a surge of venom from your fingertips into her flesh, and when you step back your fingers are stained green. Your left elbow is a dull ache; your jaw aches; your muscles burn with the spiritual exertion of so many venomous strikes.

She gasps, blood splattering from her mouth. It sprays across the filthy floor. She falls to her knees. The red is spreading; across her torso, dripping from her mouth, from the wound in her back and under her armpit.

The goddess's breath comes in shallow gasps. She clutches at her stomach, but only with her left arm.

"Do you know how vipers hunt?" you tell her. You shape off your hands, flicking droplets of poison to the ground. It sizzles on the filthy stone. "And what their venom does? It's not like other snakes, you see. My poison doesn't paralyse. My poison hurts. My poison makes you bleed. My poison eats you alive. You're probably trying to will your wounds closed right now." You smile sweetly. "It's not working, is it? Where I've struck you, your so-called divine flesh is falling apart. You're tough. You had to be to last so long. But each strike is adding more and more poison. One didn't kill you. Hmm. How many has this been, again?"

She snarls at you. Or possibly gasps in pain. Probably both. You circle to her right, back-lit by the flames, and bring your foot in to slam her face into the ground. If she was a human, you'd have broken her nose.

"That's… that's it," you observe, bare foot on the back of her neck. You grind her face into the stone. "You made your choice."

"Oh, thank the gods!" Amigere called out. "Please, please, get me out of here! She was going to eat me! And the fire is getting closer."

You glance back at him. Yes, you probably should do that. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it, darling," you say. You're probably a mess right now, sweaty and burned and bleeding, but you appreciate the way he looks at you. In fact, you revel in it. "Now, once I've dealt with thi-"

The wave of power burns your foot and you flinch back. You feel it in your gut. There's something in her mouth, and a discarded silk wrapper in front of her.

Okay, perhaps gloating was a miscalculation. Not necessarily one made by you - because it's clearly a sign of this goddess's intemperance and petty nature that such jibes spur her like this - but still, maybe it should not have been done.

Backing away, feeling the ache in your limbs, you watch warily for any more tricks. You're too tired to rush in; too tired and sore. And so you can't secure the kill, not when she's suddenly fresh with power.

The goddess stands before you. Her skin is marble; her fur is no longer patchy and mangy; her blue eyes are clear. She stands upright. Even the wounds you inflicted on her close into glowing scabs. Your venom is still in there, but this surge of power is allowing her to resist the way it tears her apart.

It is a display of strength.

It is also a display of weakness. And you know it. If she had the strength to fight like this without a terrible cost to herself, she would have used it earlier.

"What was that?" you ask, backing away. "Some drug? Some gift from a former lover? Some drabs of ambrosia you've been hoarding for centuries?"

She doesn't respond. Drawing water from the air, she condenses another spear. It's shorter than the last one. The fires that reflect off her skin are drying the air out.

"Well, it doesn't matter," you say. "To me, that is. Obviously it matters to you. You desperate old hag-lioness. But from my point of view, this isn't going to change how things go."

You grit your teeth, and pulse with the same force that tells an acorn to become an oak. Your hair blows in an unseen gale, unravelling itself from its rough bun and waving freely. Alpine flowers start to grow between the dark strands, twining around them. Under your bare feet, flowers and grass start to grow. The plant-based inks in your tattoos start to glow, writhing under your skin. The jade in your necklace sheds its own five-coloured light.

And a bright green aura wraps around your whole body, the same colour as your eyes.

You take a step forwards. The meadow follows you. It numbs the pain in your body; your left elbow doesn't hurt; you don't feel the burns. You'll pay for it later, of course. You won't be able to sustain it for too long. Not when you're already tired. But she is using stolen power. This is your blood.

She has roused a dragon.

"Listen to me, petty godling," you say. "Someone just like me sacked your fortress and left your temple a ruin. You made a mistake when you stole my man. You made a mistake when you stood up to me."

You exhale a breath, like the north wind blowing through mountain pines.

"There are two ways this can end, godling. Will you kneel before me?" You pause, for the length of a breath. Fire lights your features, but the green glow around you is stronger. "Or will you be knelt?"

Yanbu backs away. There's a look in her eyes; fear, resentment, hatred. She should. That line was from a speech from Ferem Odat Rini, your great grandmother, given to invading Northern barbarians. They did not kneel. She knelt them.

"I will not kneel before you dragon-children," she growls. "Not again. I… won't. Soul-thief. Blasphemer. Monster."

You smile at her, as beautiful as a rose and as sharp as the thorn. "Names won't hurt me. Not like I'll hurt you."

Article:

To Punish A Spirit

[ ] Confine Her - You know her name, and you know the secrets of the wyldwoods. If you can lure her into a circle of vegetation - or maybe fire - you can trap her down here and leave her to rot. And she will stay here, confined, until this sanctum falls apart. A fitting punishment.
[ ] Lessen Her - The gods of creation are granted power and authority by the laws of Heaven. If you defeat her, you can force her to surrender her position as a goddess in return for sparing her life. And her divine panoply will take form as an item of power for you.
[ ] Devour Her - Her soul will be yours - one mightier than the petty house spirit you claimed. There are many uses for that. She can regret her fate, trapped within your necklace. This will have the side-effect that the sanctum will start to fall apart, as no gods remain within it.
[ ] Write-In

EarthScorpion · Sep 21, 2019

XI. A Form of Mercy

The fire crackles and fire consumes ancient paper and cloth. You stand still, conserving your strength, as nature's wrath embraces you. And Yanbu sinks down, drawing back her fist.

This time you know what's coming. She strikes the air with her palm, and a nearly unseen air hammer strikes at you. But you're grounded and rooted, and you thrust your hand into the blow. It parts around your fingers, blowing your hair in the breeze. Behind you, it picks up debris and tosses it. The fire roars, fed by the wind.

A fragment of burning parchment drifts in front of you. Your hand whips out, and you snatch it between two fingers. Over the top of it, you catch her eyes, and watch as the green halo snuffs out the flame. "Weak," you say. "Remember, darling, you can give up any time you want." You let the paper fall, where it is lost in the growth at your feet. "You know the terms."

Of course she does. Long ago, Daana'd sat in judgement of the fights between the righteous Exalted and the petty spirits who had forgotten their place under Heaven, and decreed that the spirits might seek forgiveness and be spared if they surrendered their Heavenly role. To be gods no longer, no, but to keep their lives. Even mightier gods might enjoy the same protection, if they accepted a lessening of their authority.

A goddess like this, petty and weak, who has clung to a ruined temple far past reason, would not do that willingly. Not without duress. And maybe that's part of why you offer such a surrender. She thought to take something from you.

You'll take what she values most from her.

With a snarl, Yanbu calls two water spears from the air. The first, she hurls at you. Just like her air-blow, you deflect it, slapping it aside. There's a lot of force behind it, though, and that serves as your first warning that she is stronger than she was.

But she doesn't find you waiting for her. Because you're up and away. With your blood roused like this, you're good. You balance gracefully atop one of the oversized tables, sprouting flowers below you.

Yanbu barrels up after you, vaulting up with her spear without a fraction of your grace. She slashes at you with it like it's a glaive; you retreat. Then she lunges, and you step aside.

The smirk is wiped off your face when the shaft of her spear lashes out and wraps around your wrist. You can't even manage an exclamation of surprise before she yanks you forward, pulling you off your feet. You roll when you hit the ground, landing on the soft flowers. Then she's on top of you, pummelling you with her hefty fists. One clips your eye and you yell out, twisting aside.

Stone cracks and the table lurches. She's off balance, and you lash out with your foot. Oh, her scream is glorious when she finds that it's not just your fingers that can do venomous strikes. Her water-spear lets go of you, and you drop off the edge of the table, landing in a crouch. Yanbu follows as you retreat, but she lands heavily.

"Leg hurting?" you tease playfully. Your right foot leaves hissing green stains for a few steps, until it's wiped clean.

She is a snarling beast, an old lioness fighting her last. But you are a viper, and you don't need a killing blow. You strike her again and again. There's no need for a killing blow; each envenomed strike wears her down. Poisons her blood. Saps her might.

This wouldn't work against someone skilled enough to simply end you. But neither of you are fighting with the talent you once had. Such a victory is dishonourable, but suits you just fine. Because it's a victory. Something that is all but certain a-

A red hot line sketches itself across your stomach as her spear whips around like a glaive. You give ground, teeth clenched, clutching at your gut. Your breaths come fast. It feels shallow. You… yes. Nothing's falling out. Just a flesh wound; your burning soul helped deflect it. Nothing to worry about. No.

It's still almost certain, but you shouldn't get cocky.

Your path has taken you back away from the fire, in among the hoarded piles of centuries-old weapons and armour. You overturn a figure draped in rusted chainmail, and use the time to vault over a skeletal framework draped in tattered horse armour. Bronze catches your eye, and you grin.

When Yanbu smashes through the dry wood, you're waiting. The first thrown knife she deflects with her burnished bronze cuff, but the second takes her in the shoulder. It sticks in her tough flesh, and she snarls and tears it out. But that gives you the time to snatch up the two gorgeous bronze swords you found.

Holding them in an inverted grip, like a viper's fangs, you cross them as a guard and look at her over the top of them. The green halo extends around your weapons too, flowers opening up on the guard.

"Come on," you say.

This changes everything, as she quickly finds out. She still has reach over you, but much less. When she thrusts at you, you catch the haft of her spear on your left blade and flick out, scoring a cut along her cheek that nearly claims her eye.

Now you're forcing her back. And more than she should be retreating. She should still be holding you off just with the reach. But she pulls away from your blows when she should stand strong.

"You've fought someone using Viper School before," you realise.

"You're all sneaks and poisoners!"

"You know the bite of my venom." You show your teeth. The smoke is getting thicker, wafting between the two of you. "You're scared."

"I am not scared!" she shrieks, and charges.

You deflect her spear, pushing it off target and then you lash out with your blades. By the time she can jump away, she's bleeding from fresh wounds to her chest and right arm, and your blades are wet with green venom and red blood. Her arm shakes, trembling as your poison reaps its toll.

"You should be," you say.

"I am not!" This time, she hurls her spear at you. You sidestep, hearing it splash behind you - and this time you jump away from the hands that try to reach you. One yanks one of your two swords out of your grasp, but she fails to bind you.

She draws back to throw another spear at you. But it clatters to the ground as the golem slams its shoulder into her. One arm wraps around her. Holds her still.

"Ha!" The idiot has been pulling water from the air to make her spears, and she must have forgotten that one of those water-spears was pinning down your servitor. The air is hot and dry.

Yanbu tears herself loose and crushes the golem's head. Its spirit escapes, wailing, but the distraction is all you need.

You clench your fist, and greenery snarls her foot. She doesn't realise at first, but when she tries to take a step back she stumbles as she tears loose. And that stumble was something you were expecting. Her glowing scabs might as well be training markers as your fingers and blade sink into her flesh. Green venom stains her torn robe, joined by blood. She won't be using that arm again.

Yanbu falls to her knees. The health, the vitality flows from her. Once again she's the old tired lioness - and this time, she's clenching her teeth in a desperate attempt not to scream as your poison does its work.

You admire your handiwork. "How long did you save that power?" you ask, gloating. "And for what?"

She opens her mouth to retort, but only coughs up a spray of scarlet.

Your fingers close around her throat, nails pressed into her flesh. "So, Yanbu," you purr. Your green anima licks at her flesh. "You said all those nasty, nasty things about me earlier. You called me a soul-stealer and a monster. And you stole my man. But because I'm really a lovely woman, I'm still giving you a chance to surrender. Just like I did before."

Blood wells up around your fingers as you squeeze tighter. "And you know the terms."

Her eyes flutter. She's gasping, each breath pained. "S-surrender," she gasps.

That word is enough. Her cuffs unfasten, and drop off. They bounce to the floor, with the sound of rolling metal. And you let her fall into a bloodied pile.

You shake the venom off your weapon, splattering the floor with green.

She is reduced. Lessened. A goddess no longer. Her hands go to her face, feeling the loss of her leonine features.

Because she is no longer a lion-headed temple goddess. Her robes of office fade away into mist, drawn into your new cuffs. She is just an elemental creature; a water nymph with delusions of grandeur. Her hair is wild and the locks are whitening; her face shows traces of a once alluring beauty washed away with age; her too-large eyes are deep blue and lack pupils or whites.

"No wonder you had a thing for drowning men," you tell her, maybe a trace of sneer in your tone. "Your kind always do."

You exhale slowly, letting the roaring power fade within you. The green light fades. The flowers blooming in your hair lose their petals, which fall down to the ground. You can feel the strain in your body; the torn muscles, the cuts, the bruises. Your eye is going to look like a sunrise tomorrow from where she punched you.

Stooping, you pick up her cuffs. Your cuffs. A token of stolen power. They're bronze, and intricately engraved with a motif of lion heads. With a grunt of pain, you snap them around your wrists and stretch. Hmm. They look good on you.

"Uh? Hello?"

Oh yes, Amigere is still here. Your exhaustion is dragging you down, but the lock opens at your touch. And then you sag into his arms. He's nice and warm, and you rest your tired head against the downy feathers on his chest.

"Are you hurt?" he asks. Aww, he's concerned.

"Only a bit," you say, wrapping your arms around him with a wince. "My elbow is going to be one big bruise tomorrow, and these burns hurt. I probably need your devoted care and attention."

He chuckles in relief. "You can't be that hurt if you're making jokes like that."

You stand on his toe, and pout. "It's not a joke! I need care and attention - and love from the handsome boy I saved from a wicked spirit, of course." You gasp as he nudges your elbow by accident and red-hot pain spikes. "Uh. When I'm feeling up to it," you say, when you can speak again. Right now, even though he's still naked you're just in too much pain for your reward.

"I can't touch either of you," Yanbu growls, sounding almost like the lioness she was for so long. "But get out of here."

"Ah ah ah," you say, wagging your finger at her. "You're obliged to offer me hospitality until I'm recovered and can leave. And I'm feeling very battered."

She glares at you. She knows you're right. But she hates it. My my, this feels wonderful. "You can rest," she mutters.

You look around the burning room. "You should probably get on extinguishing those fires," you observe. "And of course, I can count on your help on getting back to the surface, nymph."

The former goddess swears at you, but you ignore her foul language. You toss the blade down in front of her, and limp towards the exit, where the air is clearer. You sit on the stairs, and stretch, feeling your stomach complain. There's a long red scab that passes just over your navel, dried blood all around it.

Welling your finger, you wipe a little blood away. It's narrow, and shallow. Not more than a scratch. But Dragons, until it heals, you're going to suffer whenever you sit. It's going to be an uncomfortable ride until that heals.

You can't help but laugh to yourself.

"Oh, what's happening?" Amigere asks, his eyes widening.

"No, no, it's just…" you can't help but laugh, even though you'd rather not. Oh dear, between the pain and exhilaration of survival, you're crying too. Damn. "I haven't been hurt like this for decades. Then twice in one year."

He stands in front of you, awkwardly covering himself - as if you care. "I'll see if I can find something for you to drink. And something to wear," he adds below his breath.

"Got any sake?" you ask instantly.

"... I don't know what that is."

Southern barbarians. Your throat definitely feels raw, and you're tasting blood. "Wine. Or spirits. Or water, I suppose," you reluctantly concede.

He heads off, and you stare into the flames. The battle rush is wearing off, leaving you with your pain. Your arms are shaking, and your left leg can't stop bouncing. Given your state, you're going to need a bath.

The tears and the laughter only intensify at that thought.

When you finally manage to wipe your eyes, something catches your eye. Something small, cigar-shaped, and white, that's rolled to the foot of the stairs half-covered by one of the charred remnants of a school. Maybe it's a cigar! You could do with a smoke.

But it's not. You feel jade under your fingers when you pick it up. It's unmistakable. And… your eyes widen, as long-ago memories stir.

Oh. Oh!

You know what this is. Your fingers brush the surface of the cigar-shaped object. If you're right... and yes, with a twist, it unscrews from the centre, and starts to hum and glow.

This is a jadescroll. There's a Shogunate seal on it, but that doesn't mean much; these things last forever. They can be at the centre of an exploding manse and will probably make it out intact. You seal it back up hastily, before anyone else can notice the light.

Honestly, you don't know what it is. But at the very least, you want your hands on a jadescroll. Even if its contents prove worthless, you can still wipe the text and use it yourself if you can get your hands on one of the pens. And if it doesn't prove worthless... well. It's practically criminal to leave it mouldering down here. Your eyes drift to the fire. Look at how poorly Yanbu kept her scrolls safe.

She'll try to stop you taking it out. It would be a breach of hospitality to take it. And right now, it's not like you can tuck it up your sleeves. Because you don't have sleeves.

Oh well. You are not leaving it behind.

After a short rest, you're feeling a little better - although not exactly sitting comfortably - and so you make your way, leaning on Amigere's shoulder, back to the mouldering main hall where the door opens up to the flooded sanctum.

"I'm really sorry about this," Amigere tells Yanbu. "None of this was meant to happen."

She doesn't seem to be in the mood for apologies. Which is a bit rich, given she should be apologising to you. "I'll have the water carry you to the surface," she croaks. She's shaking, body covered in bruises, right arm in a sling - and you doubt she'll ever be able to use it again without some great healer to repair it. "And I never want to see either of you again."

"Darling," you say, looking at her with the eye that isn't swelling shut, "the feeling is entirely mutual."

"Listen to me, dragon-spawn," Yanbu croaks. "Child of traitors, poisonous viper - from the depths of my heart, I curse you. You will know treachery. You will know betrayal. All you have loved will turn on you; all that you hate will force you to embrace it. And-"

"Are you quite done?" The only reason she's standing upright is the terms of the ancient oath. You must spare her, or be an oathbreaker - and this isn't the kind of oath to casually mess with.

She shrinks back, still clearly afraid that you'll strike her. "You'll know my vengeance soon enough."

"Your curse has no power over me, crone," you tell her, the acid thick in your voice. "If I'd slain you, I might pay some attention to your babbling. A death curse has power. But this is just spite from an old hag."

As the doors open and the bracingly cold water washes over you, you grimace. This isn't bravado. This isn't you putting on a pretty face. Her curse has no power over you.

Why would it? It's already happened.

Article:

Choose one person you cherished and betrayed.

[ ] Chiro Koharu, your friend since childhood, who never abandoned you even when the rumours started. You fed her to a prince of chaos in return for many strange secrets and a contract of power.
[ ] Ferem Niko Koizumi, who courted you and you might have married. But he wanted you to stop consorting with fae. You promised you'd stop, but... well, when he discovered you in bed with two of them, he had to go.
[ ] Neiko, your faithful maid who fled with you. She was loyal to the end, even when everyone else had turned on you. But you needed a woman with the same build to leave in that burning building to shake the Immaculate hunters.

Choose a Spell

All these spells have the Means of "stolen godly power".

[ ] Commanding the Earth's Bones - Just the gods have power over Creation, through stolen power Rena can order the ground to sculpt itself and rise or fall. She can call up walls or create chasms.
[ ] Twisted Divine Vessels - A god's panoply is a shell for a being to fill. Rena creates a number of monsters from the dregs of power that remain within her new cuffs. These parodies of the divine form obey her.
[ ] Watchful Beauteous Statue - It is a miracle of the gods that they can hear prayers and respond to them. Taking the power for herself, Rena can see and speak through stone images of herself.
[ ] Death of Purple Irises - Tearing the power from the stolen divine objects, Rena can cast it out as a cloud of fragments of power that take the form of purple irises. They can cut down a charging horde, and flowers grow where they fall.

EarthScorpion · Sep 22, 2019

XII. A Map to the Future

The defeated former goddess carries you to the surface in a bubble, and then you relax and just take in the praise from your adoring toy boy.

Yeah, right. If only.

Things aren't so simple when Yanbu carries you to the surface. Your presence has been missed. You're actually surprised. But one of the men found your clothes lying by the pool, and started making assumptions.

You're there to explain to the deyha that there was a malicious, man-drowning spirit dwelling in the pool that snatched Amigere and you saved him - and dealt with the spirit. And that's why they certainly are going to give you back your baggage.

It is necessary to get a little terse with them.

Oh, there's fear there, Fear from the pretty boys and fear from the hulking beastwomen. Someone who'll dive into a pond where a man-killing spirit lives is someone you shouldn't mess with. Of course, as a dragon-child sorceress, they shouldn't have been messing with you beforehand, but sometimes fools need reminding.

There are medical supplies in your possessions once you get them back. You find a dry, dusty room where afternoon sunlight streams in through high slitted windows, and set down a blanket. A measure of poppy juice will take the edge off the pain, and then as it kicks in you get to treating your injuries. The burns and cuts, you clean and wrap. You're applying your diminishing supplies of bruise balm to your elbow, when your nose twitches at the scent of burning soap.

"Yes?" you ask the deyha leader Layan. Your nerves are humming. You remember when the two of you met. And there is the worry that she might have realised you hypnotised her leader.

She looks down at you, her orange eyes catching the light, her ugly flat face twisted in a sneer. "Well, look at you, sorceress," she says. Honestly, 'leers' is a better word. "Looks like you went and got yourself beat up."

"No thanks to you and your people," you lie. "The goddess got angry at how you were taking water from her pool. You should really be thanking me. She'd have taken away all your pretty boys if I hadn't been here."

Ah, there's a twitch. She doesn't like the idea. She might look like she fell out the ugly tree, hit an ugly rock, and then rolled down the ugly hill before landing in an ugly swamp - and smell like it too - but she doesn't like the idea of someone taking them.

"You keep your hands off them, muriha," she growls. She also doesn't like the idea of you calling them pretty.

"Darling," you tell her, "I have the birdman I got in payment from your captain. I don't need so many men." It's a lie, but she doesn't need to know that. "Now, because I have that agreement with the captain and technically it lasts until you get me to Cahzor, but if that wasn't the case…" you snap your fingers, with a pop of green light, "well, I'd be expecting to be paid for saving you all."

Layan recoils away at the flash - a parlour trick, nothing more - and paces back and forth in front of you. "Why are you loyal to Mahmuna?" she demanded.

How you love this. This mound of muscle doesn't know how to address you. You; soft, beautiful, and mid-way through treating your wounds from the last fight. She wants your power.

"She paid me for this job." You pause, considering this beastwoman. "When this job ends, I won't be," you say, loading your voice with implications.

She leans back, and chuckles. "Oh. So that's how it is."

"Darling, if you can afford me, I'll take offers into consideration," you say. You have no reason to get involved in the struggles of beastwoman savages, but you do have reason to make her think you could be an ally.

She looks you up and down - and her eyes linger. Her voice softens. "If you need more time in bed to get better, you just have to ask me," she says.

"We don't need to linger," you say cooly. "I'm not some weakling. These wounds are battle scars. They'll heal."

You actually very much want to linger. But you can't - won't! - look weak in front of these savages. You don't like the way the deyha eye you up like you're meat. Better to have them scared of you than thinking about how much you might be worth to the right specialist buyer. There are way to chain even a dragon-child's will.

You watch her go - that muscular build, that towering height, and consider whether her soul might be useful to don. No, you decide. Not when you're hurt like this. You can't risk the struggle.

But you want away from the deyha and their brutal politics. And their stink.

As the sun sets you set out again, but things don't go as well as might have been hoped. As it turns out, there's been a landslide up ahead as the soft peak crumbles, and it's hard going for the steeds. The men have to help clear the way so their horses can cross, and progress slows to a crawl.

The day's heating up by the time you reach a dusty, tired town that huddles around sandstone caves. You were meant to have passed it in the night. It's not a one-horse town, because you don't think they could afford a horse. There's just scrawny goats and balding chicken, rooting around in the parched soil. They've built countless waist-high walls here, to try to break up the passage of the hot wind and stop their dirt blowing away.

Layan, for her part, is looking at the mounts with concern. "We take a longer rest here," she orders. Her giant hyena is panting, and one of the mules is limping. She glances at you. "Lucky for you, sorceress. Shame your magic couldn't move those rocks out of the way."

"Do not mock sorcerous power lightly, deyha," you tell her, wiping your brow. "A goddess made that mistake." You look at her through your veil. "Let us hope you are wiser."

In truth, you're exhausted. You need to sleep, to let your body mend. You're missing the boring sandship because it bounced around far less than a pony. Your wounds hurt.

There is, thankfully, a bar where you make certain purchases - and you can easily persuade one of the locals to go live with her daughter for a night in return for coins. The cave squat is quite inadequate for your usual tastes, but in your situation it will do. Barely. Another coin is enough to get the old, greying woman running your errands and preparing food for you.

You sit in the gloom on the rug on the sandy floor, and carefully clean yourself off with rags. In your hand mirror, you can see that your eye is as bad as you feared, though the swelling has gone down somewhat. It'll heal. The gash across your stomach is healing nicely, but your elbow is still swollen and sore. Not broken, but you'll need to keep it mobile or it might lock up on you.

Pouring yourself a cup of the sour, resinous wine, you shudder as it goes down. It's really awful, but several more cups get you feeling nicely numb.

Amigere stands at the door. "Are you feeling any better?" he asks softly.

"I'm just tired, darling," you say. You light up a cheroot, swirling smoke around inside your mouth. "Go off, have fun. I need to sleep."

He doesn't leave, though. "Meira," he says, using that false name. He's being awfully presumptuous by using your false personal name, but you're too tired to care. He edges closer, his hands going to your back as he starts to massage your shoulders. "Are you sure you don't need me?"

With a chuckle, you gesture at him with your cheroot. "Of course I need you," you say - and the face of poor darling Ferem Niko Koizumi flashes before your face. He would have been your second husband. You had really loved him; needed him. But he had wanted you to give up your chaos-granted power, and you couldn't do that. In the end, you'd wanted the ever-changing tang of the wyld and the many hands of your chaos-dwelling lovers more than him. And then he'd found out you'd been lying to him and… well, he had to go.

Amigere will face the same fate if he pokes his nose too deep into your affairs. In both senses of the word. If you could give up consorting with the forces of chaos, you wouldn't be in your current situation - and Koizumi would have died for nothing.

And clearly his death mattered.

"I need you," you repeat, "but while the mind is willing, the flesh is weak. Let me heal, darling." You lean back against his thighs. "You still owe me."

"Well, you saved my life," he says. "Of course I do." His hands reach around to cup your breasts. "You know," he whispers in your ear, "there are certain leads I haven't followed yet for ancient mysteries you might be interested in. If you just fund me, I could seek them out for you."

That… wasn't the kind of owe-ing you were talking about. You suck in a pained breath as he accidentally puts pressure on one of your burns. "Let's not talk about these things now," you say, batting his hands way. "Go on; have some food, drink, relax from your traumatising ordeal. Once we get to Cahzor, I'll want you in tip-top condition."

He leaves, and you're left alone in this house. The old lady is running errands for you; you listen as Amigere's footsteps fade down the corridor outside. Time to see what...

"I don't trust him," Sei says from inside one of the niches in the stone wall.

"You don't trust him?"

"He's trying to lure you to him."

"Sei, Sei, Sei," you say. "Of course he is. I'm an exceptionally beautiful woman who just saved his life. What do you expect him to do?"

The cat harrumphs.

"Jealous, are we?" you enquire.

"I don't get jealous of your lovers," your familiar says, tail lashing behind him. "It's a high risk occupation. They tend to wind up dead when they find out more than they should. Or fed to me. Or you get bored with them and then there's the drama of a breakup."

"I just think you're jealous," you say mildly.

He doesn't respond, clearly defeated by your wisdom. And that means you can finally see what the treasure you found was. You recover it from its hiding place, biting your lip, and turn it over in your hands.

"Well, well, well," Sei says, dropping down to pad over and curl up on your lap. "How did you get your hands on that without the goddess… sorry, former goddess noticing you had that?"

You only raise one eyebrow at him. "I'll tell you when you tell me how you got out of the sunken temple without getting wet."

"Mmm. Well, wash your hands, my lady. You don't know where it's been."

Firmly, you pick him up and drop him off your lap. He makes a squawking sound in being handled this way, which is nearly worth the spike of pain as the motion jars your elbow.

Once again, you return to staring at the thing you found. A white jadescroll - a wonder of the ancients, marked with the seal of the Shogunate. It may hold secrets from that fallen power, which ended over seven hundred years ago in plague and invasion by the princes of chaos. Or it might have been overwritten more recently by someone from this modern age, in which case it could hold anything. Sorcerous lore, blackmail material - there are so many uses for a jadescroll, which can hold thousands of pages.

"Well, are you going to open it, or are you just going to put it back where you found it?" Sei inquires.

"Shut up," you mutter. "I'm trying to work out how to activate it."

It takes some examination, but you figure it out, There's a chime from the jadescroll, and in a concertina movement it extends, until it's nearly the length of your forearm. Ah! You've seen one of these before in the great history-rooms of the Cherak Council. You stand it on end, wedging it into a crack in the floor.

Nothing happens until you take it out again and put it in the other way. And that's when the top expands like a blossoming flower, revealing a crystal under the jade. It lights up, flickering, and a wavering High Realm glyph appears. It's heavily corrupted and sometimes cuts out entirely. Tilting your head, you realise it's on it's side.

"Open," you read.

The glyph expands, breaking apart into more lights. It takes form as a sphere of blue-white light that floats over the tip of the jadescroll. You don't realise what it is until you pull yourself upright.

"It's a map," you breathe.

"Well observed, my lady," Sei says, voice thick with sarcasm.

Much of the text is corrupted, but the map is mostly intact. There's a floating, wavering city in pale blue, sprawling over what you think is a mountain valley by its size. Icons in various colours float, marking out various places. The architecture looks old, but there's no date you can see.

Stretching out, you stick your fingers into the hard air and rotate the map, peering down the valley. What are all these sites? What do they mean? Oh, that useless goddess, failing to take proper care of this treasure!

You stroke the dam at the top of the valley, a sizable mountain lake behind it. You're not sure where in Creation this is, but there are only so many dams built by the ancients. Perhaps this might even be Cazhor - after all, you're only a couple of days away from that city and your destination is Cazhor-upon-Dam.

Reaching out, you tap one of the icons - one in the valley wall. A floating red box appears, but the text in it is so corrupted you can't read it. There's the hovering glyph for 'Documents', but when you touch it, the map cuts out and only reappears when you withdraw your hand.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Yes. I can work with this. It doesn't matter how corrupted it is. It's a map. I don't know what exactly, but all these locations must be important." You bite your lip. "It doesn't matter if most of them have been plundered in the years since. One of them might have been missed. Even if they haven't, this is a jadescroll. I can use this. Yes. Yes."

Taking the jadescroll up in shaking hands, you return it to its compact form. Who knows how long it will remain operational? You need to make copies of the information in it. Can't let it fail before you make sure you're not losing anything.

You're being sensible, and trying very hard not to dance out of sheer joy. This might be exactly what you're looking for to rebuild your fortune and power. For once, fortune smiles on you.

"Is something funny?" Sei asks, with a yawn. "You're grinning like a fool."

You stoop down to stroke your familiar. "I have come into some luck, darling," you tell him. "Quite some luck. And who knows! You might be getting some snacks soon!"

Your laughter echoes out of the room.

END OF ARC 1

And with that, we draw Arc 1 to a conclusion.

There's been no omakes, so there's no omake/artwork round up. So there's just the regular arc XP.

Votes here must be done as plan voices. Votes which are not in the form of plan votes will not be counted.

All XP must be allocated.

Article:

XP Vote - Allocate 700 XP

[ ] Write-In - Use Plan Voting

Current Styles and XP progression can be found here.

EarthScorpion · Sep 25, 2019

OK, much less interest for this vote, but never mind. Regardless, I think I've left it open long enough.

Plan Mai/Ty Lee wins. As a result, Rena restores Viper Style to Disciple and Peacock Style to Initiate, as well as beginning progress on Unnoticed Breeze Style.

Now, as Peacock Style isn't in-aspect, she doesn't get a Charm for it, but she does get another Viper Style Charm. And that means it's time for you to decide how you're going to shape her progress in Viper Style, choosing her path. As a result, there's only two voting options here - choosing which of the previously offered two Charms you take. This choice is mutually exclusive - you're picking her focus in this Style. Such an offer will not come up again. Choice of one will lock off the other.

As it stands, due to your previous pick, Rena's Viper Style has a focus on poison, pain and precision. This pick will add a second theme to it.

Article:

Pick One Path

[ ] Path of the Jade Fang: Beware the terrifying rattlesnake, she of the stabbing fangs. Rena gains Disturbed Snake Stance. The Path of the Fang will focus Rena's Viper Style Charm development on direct combat uses - such as lightning-fast strikes and snake-like armour. Additionally, she will also gain a focus on the use of fear and making examples of her foes.
[ ] Path of the Three-Eyed Hunter: Beware the inescapable viper, she who sees without light. Rena gains Life-Hunting Eye. The Path of the Hunter will focus Rena's Viper Style Charm development on utility effects like tracking and perception - such as seeing without light and following the trail of someone she injures. Additionally, she will also gain a focus on the metaphorical 'digestion' of her foes.

As a reminder, the text of these two charms are presented below:

Life-Hunting Eye - Opening a spiritual simulacra of the viper's third eye, Rena gains the ability to see threats even in pitch darkness. As Rena is a Wood Aspect, her Life-Hunting Eye senses the vital essence of Creation's inhabitants; creatures like fae and demons are hard to detect, and the Dead and automata are entirely invisible.
Disturbed Snake Stance - A counter-attack stance, used by Viper Style fighters when facing an opponent who is overly rash or underestimates them. Taking advantage of her opponent's incautious moves, Rena lashes out with repeated strikes or thrusts showing considerably increased strength and speed for this burst of motion. This stance is physically exhausting, and is much less effective against a cautious foe or one who keeps their distance.

EarthScorpion · Sep 26, 2019

XIII. Over the Hill, Cahzor

You dream of home.

You have crossed Creation in your flight from the persecution you have suffered, and the ancestral lands of the Odat family are still the most beautiful place you have seen. High in the mountains of northern Cherak, your fortress lay close to the old border, where two glacial valleys met. The mountains were always laden with ice; the streams and rivers were cool meltwater. Even in the height of Fire it never grew too hot, and in the colder months the land was beautiful, sleeping under a white veil.

The proud princes of the Realm call the Ferem families a gaggle of rustics, and sneer at your homeland's fashions. What would they know? They live in the fat, safe Blessed Isle, where the winds are gentle and one might as well just toss seeds on the ground and come back a few months later for the harvest.

Cherak is not like that. Even in the south, the winds leave the pines stooped and there's always the risk of early snowfall bringing tragedy to the one rice harvest a year. Northern Cherak was never tamed; not like the coastal regions, where every square kilometre where there's soil is devoted to crops and where the sea is a patchwork of white sails fishing and harvesting kelp. But you grew up in a little enclave of domestication in a wild landscape of pines and rock and snow.

And now your memory of home is tainted. Ruined. Because the knowledge of how it ended poisons your recollections. If you think of the gentle terraces where crops grew, protected by walls from the winds, then you know that the Immaculates will have burned your many-coloured flowers and sprinkled salt upon the ground. The tall walls of the Odat fortress were scarred and crumbling last time you saw them, torn into by the elemental beasts unleashed on you. The underground chambers where you made such fascinating discoveries into the nature of the soul will be collapsed, and the doors bound with iron.

As you fled, you saw the fires through the windows. They burned your library! And you couldn't stop them! You couldn't save your books! Those books you so carefully gathered, defying the prohibitions on illustrations - and on many more things - and spending a fortune to track down! So many secrets you hadn't got around to exploring; encrypted notes you hadn't yet decoded!

It hurts. It hurts to watch everything you care about burn. And now the flames are advancing on you, except these fires wrap armoured figures. You stand upon a parapet, the bitterly cold wind whipping your hair. Their eyes unjustly accuse you.

You jolt awake with a yelp. Unfortunately, that's enough to headbutt Amigere in the beak.

"Ow!" you exclaim. He makes a similarly pained noise. But you came out worse. Beaks are hard. "Did you pinch me?"

"You sounded like you were having a nightmare!" he says defensively, voice slightly muffled.

You rub your eyes. They're gritty with tried tears and sleepdust; your brow is damp with sweat. Oh well. You can forgive him for that, you suppose. It's better than letting that go on any further. You always have nightmares for a few days after feeding your dreams to Sei.

The pre-dawn air is still chilly. It's been getting colder at night as the mountain path climbs and climbs. Perhaps that's why you dreamt of home, of all places. You wriggle up against him, twisting your head around to kiss him. "Yes. I... I was." You let out a sigh. "Hug me."

"Was it bad?"

You nod. "Yes," you say, in a tiny voice.

It's been two days since you struck down that goddess, stole her power and left her cowering in her misery and defeat. You're healing. Healing like a dragon-blood should. It's not just the wounds from the silly goddess, either. You're coming back into your former strength. The meditation in that shaded grotto seems to have done you good. That and the healthy living and the exercise (both physical and bedroom) and… well, not just sitting in a ship's cabin, feeling sorry for yourself and getting drunk on cheap, sour wine.

You still can't truly walk long distances without it hurting too much, but it doesn't seem like it was only a week ago that you were limping sullenly from your cabin to the deck and back again. Your dragon-blood has stirred to life, and it is certainly making itself known.

Why couldn't it do earlier, though? The heritage of Sextes Jylis can't be controlled, but it feels awfully unfair that it seems to expect you to not take a few months to relax. Well, maybe years. Decades. Urgh, when you put it like that, it almost seems like it's your fault for being so out of shape, so obviously that whole chain of thought is a red herring.

Enough of these morbid ponderings. The deyha say that you should reach Cahzor-upon-Dam before it gets too hot for the horses. Just a few more hours and you'll be free of the stink of the hyenas.

Hopefully they have good food. Food, baths, wine, and pretty boys; the things needed to release all the stress from an exhausting week.

The hill road levels out, then starts to descend again. The day is heating up, and you wipe your brow on your sleeve.

An awful stink been growing for several hours now. It's terrible. It's metallic, with hints of sulphur and rotting seaweed. As an accomplished and unquestionable sorceress who has worked with others who work in the arcane arts, you speak with expertise when you say that it smells like an alchemical spill.

And then you come around a bend, and down the rugged mountain track, you see it. The vast wall of yellow stone. Back in Cherak you had seen the ruins of the dams of antiquity. The ancients loved to build them, to tap the rich dragon lines that run along the great mountain rivers.

But compared to this monster, the Cheraki dams were tiny things.

This is a mountain built in the way of a river; in every way a rival to the great dam at Rising Lotus in the Blessed Isle that you have seen paintings of. It is broad enough that a fortress lies atop it, and a town sprawls along the walkways and gantries that spill over its lip. Suspended houses are roofed with rusting scrap and canvas; sheets of old metal form perilous gantries between the reinforcing struts of the dam. And the main body is overgrown, though not through nature's efforts. There are trees and fields on top of this dam, worked by tiny figures! Madness! If the buildings weren't enough of a clue of the sheer immensity of this structure of antiquity, the sails of the wheeled landships at the port on the far southern side of the damn paint all the picture you need.

On the western side of the dam lies a vile, stinking tarn trapped within a broad valley. The water is slick with the pollution of forgotten ages; it is red in places, black in others and oil-shimmer where you can see the half-broken wreck of an ancient ship. Near the edges of the valley it is so shallow that the landscape is a marsh where nothing truly lives, and black birds cry mournfully, their voices audible even from this distance. There are tiny settlements down there, built on poles to get away from the toxic mud. You wonder how many of the people who dwell down there see their thirtieth birthday. There's another port there, and paddlebarges unload their loads onto great hoists that lift up to the town atop the dam.

"Yes," Amigere says, "that stink is the Little Nam." He's leading your pony on foot.

"It never get any better," Awwal says, twisting back on his pony. He's pulled back his headscarf, letting his tawny hair blow freely so he can cover up his nose. "You haven't smelled it before, lady?"

"No," you say, copying his gesture and pulling up your sandscarf to cover your nose. If you had any perfume left, you would spray it to try to distract from that stench. Well, you certainly won't be staying here too long. The only reason people live here, you assume, is that the toxins burn out the sense of smell with prolonged exposure. "What happened here?"

Awwal shrugs. "'Tis said that it's an ancient curse on the land."

"Not a curse," Amigere says. "It's the dam. From what I've heard, until a couple of hundred years ago, the Little Nam still flowed past the dam, and it was drinkable back then. But it stopped flowing and the lake turned sour."

"Oh," you say, "I see." You've heard of such things. Probably a mix of silt in the dam mechanisms and the land drying out. If there's no flow out, the water is just evaporating from the lake. Leaving behind whatever it's carrying. You peer down over the drop, taking note of the bands of brightly coloured minerals around the edge of the lake. "Mine run-off, I'd wager. And other things. I wouldn't drink that water."

"You'd be right," Awwal agrees. "In Cahzor-upon-Dam, they boil it in the sun and gather the water-fumes within the dark of the dam. It is quite a wonder, it is said. This city is water-rich compared to most of Cahzor."

"Most of Cazhor?" you ask.

He gestures ahead. "Wait. And see. I would not ruin it for you."

"Amigere," you pout.

"Oh no, no, I think he's right." The bird-man's eyes dance with merriment as he glances back at you. "I can't wait to see how you react."

The deyha pick a path around the curve of the hillside, leading down to the broader, sand-choked ancient road that connects to the top of the dam. That's the longer route that the sandship would have taken. And on the east, you see, as you rise up over the heights of the dam before descending down to its level...

... Cahzor!

Cahzor, called by some the Dowager-Empress of the Fire Mountains, Cahzor Once-Mighty, Cahzor who you remember tales of its legendary wealth being told when you were a girl a century and more ago.

Cahzor is not a city, you realise at this point. People said that it was, and they were wrong. Cahzor is a valley. Cahzor is a landscape. Once you knew a half-mad demonologist - you gave sanctuary to her, at least until she helped you crack the cipher in the Kuza ruins - who claimed that she had once been to Hell and seen a city so vast that nowhere you looked was not brass spires and black stone towers, under a green sun that cast no shadows. She had lost her mind, of course, but the sight of Cahzor brings her tall tales to mind.

For Cahzor is the valley to the east of the dam, a sea of sandy stone and dusty roads and ruined towers shepherded between the defaced giant statues that line the walls, each one - Dragons! - a mile in height. Their heads are above the level of the dam; there is nowhere you can stand in this city-landscape without seeing them. To build statues of one's self that so dominate the landscape is... well, genius, honestly. You wish you'd come up with it.

Yet someone carved off the faces of the statues they did not decapitate, and not one remains intact. Whosoever wrought these icons has been forgotten by time through the efforts of long-ago men - because you can see scrubby trees growing out of the neck stump of one of the vast statues.

And the city down below, watched over by its faceless guardians, is built to a colossal scale. A glimpse of a distant landship, sailing along a raised highway, tells you how terrifyingly massive the structures in the centre of the city are. There are apartment blocks - Dragons, are those only apartment blocks? - taller than the Odat fortress. There are sparkling, jagged glass towers just like Chiaroscuro, but the buildings of yellow stone cluster around their waists like children around their mother. And even when the buildings are lesser in their scale, there are so many of them, sprawling across this broad valley.

"Dragons," you breathe, and the two very mean boys snigger at you.

How old must this city be? You have seen Chiaroscuro on your trip south, and though the glass that shimmers in the heat down below is no match for those shattered spires, this city is so vast that you could likely lose the jewel of the Delzhan within it. How many souls must dwell here?

You ask Amigere that, and he shakes his head. "Look again," he says, gesturing down. "Look for the green."

You don't see it at first. And then it's horribly clear. It's like one of those meditation books where you empty your mind until you see the image. Those scattered few patches of green aren't gardens or parks.

They're fields.

And if they're fields, then this is truly not a city. This is a ruin. A parched ruin that sprawls across an entire valley, where settlements squat among the decay. You pull out your telescope, and take a closer look.

So many buildings; windowless, vacant. Dead. Down in the valley, where the heat haze shimmers as thick as water, the grand towers are half-devoured by the sand that's blowing up from the endless deserts to the east. The only people you see are tiny ant-like figures, clustered around what little vegetation there is. The canals are dry and only sandships sail there; the riverbed now only carries sand up from the expanse.

Amigere grins at you. "Takes many people by shock the first time they see it," he says. "Cahzor used to rule these mountains, you know. Few hundred years ago, it was the big power, not Gem. But that was all settled when Gem crushed the last Cahzori army. Ha." He throws back his head and crows. "Makes my heart feel all warm and tingly, to think about how this place lost everything. Couldn't happen to anyone more deserving!"

"You don't like the Cahzori?" you ask him.

"Not much." The birdman shrugs. "You can't trust them. Never met one who isn't in on some scam, they worship strange gods, and down in the valley, they'll cut your throat for the blood if they're thirsty."

You look at Amigere dubiously. You're pretty sure that you would have heard if all the Cahzori were blood-drinking cannibals. Tales of such a nest of ghouls would have spread. "Awwal," you ask the deyha man riding to your right, "is that true?"

"I wouldn't know," he says, shifting his position on his poney. His tawny eyes meet yours, and you regret not having the chance to get to know him as well as you would have liked. "I've never gone down into the valley. Only occasional supply runs to Cahzor-Upon-Dam. It'd be easier if we could go to Cahzor-Grand-Bazaar, but, well…"

"But what?"

Layan laughs a barking laugh from behind. "Damn ferals work for the Sugun," she says, her hyena loping forwards. "We could crush them, of course, but orders are orders and we're not picking an unprofitable fight with a bunch of deserters."

You doubt that's the full truth. "Where's Grand-Bazar?" you ask.

"Down in the valley," she says. "The other big sandship port. It gets the trade from the Burning Sands, so that's how it survives. It and this place are the only ones with any plunder worth speaking of."

"Mmm." Yes, there's no way that the band you saw could take this fortress town up on the dam, and you have to assume that this other place they speak of is as well defended. You wonder how that lines up with your map.

Still, that's something to be concerned of. One of the mighty lords of Cahzor has a bunch of deyha working for her, does she? Well, that's not good if they control any of the areas where your map says there are sites. You'll want to stay clear of that.

Layan shakes her head. "Worthless piles of stone," she says, looking over the valley. "Whole place has been picked clean by the vultures. No money left in Cahzor. No water nor food, and the slaves are a bunch of straggly thirsty rats. We'd be doing them a favour if we grabbed them, we really would." Her ugly flat face twists into a sneer. "Pointless."

There is a child playing a thin, wailing set of bagpipes where the road passes past the fortress gate on the northern approach. A few coppers rest in the clay pot in front of him, that sits between his stumps. There are guards at the gate, but they recognise the deyha - at least for what they are - and you aren't stopped.

The streets of Cazhor-Upon-Dam are packed warrens, crammed perilously tight. Sandstone structures nearly touch as they lean in together, forming nearly-tunnels that add the stink of humanity to the awful scent of the poisoned lake. Unwashed bodies, shit and cooking all form a fug to the air that's so thick you could nearly chew it. The ground floors of most buildings are small taverns or takeaway places or workshops, and the lines between the three are blurred.

Fortunately, people don't jostle you in the streets. Giant hyenas serve wonders for clearing a path, and the other deyha - the one you didn't bother learning the name of - kicks a man in the face so hard you see a flash of flying teeth when he shows too much interest in the baggage strapped to the mules.

"This place is awful," you say to Amigere, leaning in. Among the clammer of the town, no one is likely to overhear you. "Where's a half-way civilised place to stay? We'll need to find a place where we can leave the baggage when the deyha go."

He tilts his head, pulling his hood up higher to cover his features. "Last time I was here… well, over in Jasmine Heights, things are better and a lot of the richer families have annexes they rent to travellers. Otherwise… there's the sandship docks on the far side of town."

"Hmm." You glance at a paint-splattered wall, and notice that there's an image of Sei there. His eyes seem to move, tracking you as you ride past. What an awful show-off familiar he is. "Maybe."

"What's your intent here?" he asks. "If you're looking for a sandship south, the docks would be the best place."

You're not - that's the thing. You need to head down into the valley. And it won't just be you. You're going to need an expedition, with supplies, and preferably specialists. Including mercenaries, but you've already seen some here. The docks aren't necessarily where you want to be - or maybe they are. There are likely to be travellers who might have interesting skill-sets there, but it puts you away from the main part of the city.

"Ah," Amigere says slowly, looking you up and down. "If you're paying - and you think you can afford it, well. There's always the Cerulean Lotus."

"The what?" Your brow wrinkles. "That sounds like a brothel, with a name like that." Ridiculous. To think you have to pay for pretty men to fall at your feet, feed you grapes and lavish you with their attention.

"No… well, not primarily. I'm sure they'd find someone for anyone who paid. But no, it's right by the palace. Part of the same complex, I think? Regardless, it's ancient. It's a casino and a hotel and I heard it only stays in business because it's where the rich sorts from the Realm who are heading down to the Deep South stay. I've only been even into it once, but it's so much colder than the rest of the city. I think they have ancient air pumps working there."

"Hmm," you say, as behind you in the street two women fight over a claim of short-changing. "Interesting."

Article:

Where Do You Stay?

~~[ ] You don't care. You just want to collapse - and not spend very much money.~~ No. No way. You do care. You deserve nice things.
[ ] The Algari House, right by the sandship dock on the southern edge of the town. You remember it being name-dropped as where your ill-fated ship south was going to dock, and your dull captain seemed to consider it tolerable. You might be able to meet other travellers, but it'll be dull and out of the way of the bazaar here.
[ ] You'll take Amigere's suggestion, and lodge in one of the dwellings that advertise themselves as traveller's rests. You can probably find one that is tolerable. You're sure you can browbeat whoever you grace with your presence to wait on you and find out more about what you're looking for, but it'll be in the heart of the city and noisy.
[ ] The Cerulean Lotus, which huddles in the shadow of the fortress of the lords of this city. The sound of the ancient cold-air pumps are audible from some distance away, keeping the stench of the lake away from this place. Built in richer times, and half-empty. Lovely and well-situated, yet expensive and might draw attention.

When Amigere Asks You If You're Planning to Stay Long, What Do You Say?

[ ] Yes. Bring him in on the secrets of the map. He's a self-proclaimed scavenger lord, and for all that he clearly isn't one of the most prosperous, he might be useful while you investigate it. He might only be a dalliance, but you might as well make him useful than merely in the bedroom.
[ ] Only until you have your strength back. He doesn't need to know about the map - but maybe you can take advantage of him (in more than one way) while you prepare for an expedition down into the valley. He's only a dalliance, and you don't yet trust him with something this precious.

EarthScorpion · Oct 1, 2019

XIV. His Head In Her Lap

This chapter contains a scene of sexual content, of the kind that one might see in a 15-rated film. The explicit content is placed within a spoiler box, and the narrative has been structured such nothing totally plot-vital occurs in the explicit content, serving instead as characterisation (ie, if you choose not to read it, the rest of the chapter should be comprehensible).

For a moment, you almost doubt yourself. You almost follow his suggestion of lodging somewhere in Jasmine Heights. But such madness passes quickly, as you remember who you are.

"Well, darling, that sounds like quite a wonderful time," you say flippantly. "The Cerulean Lotus it is - at least if its expense is worth its luxury."

Of course, it's not just that you deserve the finer things in life. Though it is. Unquestionably, it is. Denying you nice things is basically an affront to all things right and proper and that is why the past few months have been a nightmare. But it's also that you can read your darling birdman. It impresses him to see you spend such money so casually. It captivates him.

And you want to grease him up. Metaphorically. Also literally. But the metaphor is what matters now.

With the hyenas to lead the way, it doesn't take too long until you arrive at the stables on the far side of town that will tolerate deyha. From the looks of things, it's run by deyha men, so it's probably a supply location for them. After all, their giant hyenas are carnivores - normal stables probably aren't going to want to have creatures that consider their stock in trade as meals.

Plus, you're going to have to be honest here, those hyenas stink.

Lanyan throws herself off her steed, glancing at it as it snaps at one of the handlers. It calmly follows the man in. Shoulders hunched, she looms over you. "Well, we're here," she says. "You got your escort."

"Indeed," you say. "I hope to do business with you and your… illustrious leader again."

The flat-faced woman smirks at that. "I bet you do," she says, stepping in. Her smell like burning soap wafts over you, and you try not to gag. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Well, we'll get my luggage off your steeds," you say, "and part ways."

"Try not to be eviscerated by the Demio because of your smart mouth. Tell you what, next time we're here, I'll look for your corpse staked out down in the swamp by the Little Nam," she growls. You're not sure if it's a warning or a sign you nearly pushed her too far. It's the game you've been playing with her. Well, not really a game. She's the sort to play for keeps. But you have to get in her face enough that she doesn't treat you as weak, but not enough that she tries to eviscerate you.

You don't like this game much. That's why you want away from her.

You do not linger too long with your farewells to the deyha. They've done their part of the deal you unilaterally forced upon them by twisting the mind of their leader, and you have little interest in them now.

Well, that's not strictly true.

"Such a shame we couldn't get to know each other better," you coo to Awwal, patting his cheek. He turns bright red, and stammers a nothing. You just laugh. "What an adorable boy you are. If you're ever here again at the same time as me, look me up."

He doesn't really respond coherently, but the look in his eyes is validation.

As a man's voice and the clanging of bells rises over the city, you stretch to your full height, and shield your eyes as you see what the commotion is. A column of black-robed figures makes its way through the streets. With each step they hit the brass bells they carry. Four men carry a shrine between them on their shoulders, that of a female figure in black stone, halo'd by a crescent moon.

"Alms! Alms for gentle Lila, alms for the goddess's mercy!" cries out the man. Behind him, two small children carry buckets where the donations are given.

Oh, a local night goddess. Or maybe moon goddess. From the coins tossed to the children, she must be a popular goddess. Well, it makes sense that they'd worship the night as mercy; it's heating up here, and these cramped streets are becoming an oven. You wipe your brow. Yes. Time to get out of the heat.

And with that said and done, you go to hire some local porters to carry your luggage to your planned destination. Only honest ones, of course. And you ensure their honesty by making sure they're quite aware that if anything is missing, you'll lay such curses upon them that their children will feel it.

You can't actually curse people like that, but people are not inclined to doubt a sorceress.

This is the Cerulean Lotus; four storeys tall in its main body, with three grand towers, one in each wing. Built from the golden stones quarried from the structures in the valley, it has been sheathed in white marble so it shines bright when the fierce sun looks down upon it. Its roof is beaten brass; under plundered glass lush greenhouses grow fruit trees. Like a favoured child it huddles beneath the wings of the fortress of the lords of this city, safeguarded and protected. No doubt there are passageways into the citadel from it, so the mighty can stroll in and take their delights in this pleasure palace.

This is the Cerulean Lotus. And it is old. It is tired. You have visited the Blessed Isle as part of a Cheraki delegation and stayed in your greater family's consulate. It is a structure like that that this mimics, but it mimics in the style of a child who builds a house for dolls then leaves it to gather dust in the attic.

Only one wing is open, the eastern one that overlooks the ruins of Cahzor. The white marble is dirty, marred with smoke and scratched by years of sandstorms. The greenhouses grow hashish and poppies and coca. It would not surprise you if this luxury hotel sustains itself with the sale of drugs to the people of Cahzor-upon-Dam - and the wasteland below, too. In such a miserable city, such drugs would serve nicely to dull the minds of those who ask why their lords have air pumps while the masses are crammed into warrens of stone.

The paths dip down where feet have worn away the stone, and no one has replaced them. As you enter and inhale the cool air, you smell old stale smoke and spirits. The lavish imported Coaxti rugs are worn flat and faded; the leather couches in the foyer are discoloured and compressed; they have supplemented the magic lighting of the ancients with oil lanterns and brass mirrors cunningly placed to capture light from outside and reflect it into this old man of a building.

You sweep in towards the counter, your presence like a battering ram. The potted plants on the counter lean in towards you; the air smells of fresh vegetation. The woman behind the front desk widens her eyes. Her skin is like marble and her hair has a brassy tint to it; when you focus you can see the irises blooming from her temples. Some spirit-blooded get of the god of this hotel, you suspect.

"My lady," she says, bowing her head. She's right to do so. Your blood is to the fore and every eye in the foyer is on you.

"Girl," you say, "I require rooms for myself and my man. They must overlook the city." You are a hammer to their faces, and when the girl fetches someone 'more suited to your importance', you watch as this older man with the same god-blooded features weakens in the face of your presence.

Any resistance crumples when you dramatically slam a silver talent down on the desk. The ingot makes a solid thunk that draws attention from all around the room.

"I believe this is proof enough of my bona fides," you say, radiating insult that they dared assume you couldn't handle the bill.

The man's eyes light up at that. "Yes, my lady," he says. "That will serve quite adequately as a deposit."

It better. You only have two more silver talents left; everything else is in smaller denominations. Of course, you don't let that show and you haggle hard, pulling down the price from ludicrously to merely extravagantly expensive. You draw up a contract for a seasonal lease, after a little bit of draughtsmanship on your part, and after seeing three rooms, sign for one of them.

"Wonderful," you say. "Now, have my maid head to the bathhouse."

"... your maid?" The man blinks.

"It was in the contract," you say, with a false yawn. "See the clauses about service. You don't expect me to do my own hair and fill my own baths, do you?"

There's a certain note of alarm as they discover that they have in fact signed a contract that promises you that lavish level of service - all at no extra cost - but they can hardly back out now.

"Now, tell the bathhouse I intend to wash, and have the girl there and ready to assist me," you instruct.

"We don't usually…"

You direct a sharp glare at the man, your eyes momentarily slitted. "Excuse me?" you inquire.

"... nothing, my lady. I'll see to it."

Flippantly, you pat him on the cheek. "Wonderful. And have your people accompany my man and help him bring the luggage up. You can't miss him. He has a bird's head."

You close the door to your rooms behind you. The rooms are tall-ceilinged, with black and white tiles overlaid with faded blue rugs. Abstract art tiles the walls, forming geometric patterns. The far wall is dominated by a single window made up of tinted crystal, though the slightly jagged pattern of one edge suggests the window was salvaged from another building. And this is just the main room - the one which you might entertain guests. There's also a dining room, a washroom and bathroom, a simpler room for any servants you acquire, and of course, your primary bedroom. With attached walk-in wardrobe.

With a happy moan, you flop down onto the soft blue-draped bed face first. Which then turns into an unhappy moan.

"Oww!" you groan, rolling over as your hand goes to the still-healing scab on your stomach. "Forgot about that."

"It's really very silly of you," Sei observes, seated comfortably on one of the pillows at the bed's head. "Now, how about getting me some food?"

"We'll see about that later." You sit up, running your hands through your sweaty, dusty hair. "I need a bath first. So do you. You probably stink even worse than you normally do."

Sei sniffs. "As you knew when you trapped me in this awful form, cats are very clean creatures."

"Bullshit. I should drop you in the bath too."

"Try that and I'll see how much I can claw you before my binding stops me from threatening your life."

You rise. "Well, then, you can keep on being stinky," you observe. "I will go get clean."

"Why bother? You're just going to get sweaty and filthy with your birdman tonight. You should let me eat him."

"Sei, Sei, Sei," you say, wisely. "I have a more fulfilling purpose for him."

"And that purpose would be for filling you," your familiar says. He waves a paw at you, tails flicking. "If you're not going to feed me, go on. Shoo. You're interrupting my nap. No doubt you'll be making noise all night."

He's right, but he shouldn't just say it out loud like that.

You change into a light smock, and head down after asking directions to the bathhouse. It turns out to be a separate structure right by the edge of the dam, whose roof gleams with glass. This building looks newer and better maintained than most of the rest of the structure. You wonder why.

As soon as you enter, you're hit by the wall of steam and heat. You're impressed. You had wonderful, darling hot springs not too far from the Odat fortress, but other people not favoured in that manner still built bathhouses and saunas. You didn't expect these Southern barbarians to understand, but you can certainly appreciate this place.

Oh, and there are two women waiting there to greet you - both god-kin, with the same marble skin and brass-tinged hair. The older is dressed in the uniform that the staff seem to wear, while the younger is in an undyed bathrobe.

"Lady Meira as-Sayu," the older, fatter one says in heavily accented High Realm. Clearly assuming you're a Dynast, and you have no intent of correcting her on that subject, even if she's conjugating your assumed name in the local way. There are dragon-kin who would be enraged by that. "Welcome, welcome. We have prepared a private room for you. Now, at this hour of the day, the baths are mostly empty - most people only come in the morning and evening when it's cooler."

"I'm just off a long travel," you say back in the same language. "I need to clean myself."

"Of course, of course, my lady," she says. Her voice, you decide, is as oily as seal meat. "Now, my niece here is your maid, so she will see to your needs, no matter what you require."

"Lady," murmurs the younger woman. It's hard to tell their ages with their strange skin, but you wouldn't put her as older than twenty. You also note her accent is notably better than her aunt's. She's a pretty enough little thing, with almond-shaped eyes that hint at Realm heritage somewhere back in her heritage; something that her aunt lacks.

The older woman pauses. "Now, ah, here men and women bathe separately. We can arrange otherwise, but please, let us know in advance and we can arrange for privacy."

That draws your interest. "I'll keep that in mind if it ever comes up," you say.

The older woman says something to the younger in some Firetongue dialect that you can't follow at the lightning-fast speed she uses, and the girl responds in kind.

"This way, my lady," the girl says, leading you down yellow-stone corridors tiled with lavish aquamarine. "My name is-"

She says her name, but you're not actually paying enough attention to remember it. Your mind is focussed on other things, and she's just the help. The help… in this hotel, where all of them have the same skin and hair. Good heavens, you think as she helps you strip down, either their divine parent is profligate, or they form a large and probably incestous family. Probably both. Hmm. You'll have to watch out for that ancestor. Some people get uppity just because they're descended from some petty god, and this is a pretty good indication that this deity keeps its attention directed towards its kin. At the very least, so it can fuck them, if your suspicions are correct.

Her gasp draws you back to yourself. "Lady," she says softly. "Your arms, your back, your leg…"

You raise one eyebrow as you realise what she's looking at. "Haven't seen battle scars before, girl?"

"I have, but some of these look fresh! And those look like healing burns! Do you need… uh, well, we certainly have some aloe and other ointments, but are they…"

Raising one finger, you push it to her lips. "I ran into some trouble on the way down South," you say. "It'll heal."

"But you're scarred like… well, you're so pretty that… I just didn't expect..."

You glow at the compliment, even though you're pretty sure she's playing you. She's right, though. "Shh, girl." You hand your clothes to her to be folded, and then sit yourself down on the stool next to the tub.

This is the first time you can really appreciate the view. You wonder; did they build the bathhouse with the same dramatic view of Cahzor knowing that you would look over ruin, or was it once a spectacle of a thriving city? How many people have sat where you sit now, and stared at the ruins below?

The first bucket of warm water still comes as a mild surprise, and you gasp before you realise that, of course, it was going to happen. Oh. Oh, dragons, that's so good. You can literally feel the dust and the sand of days on the road coming off. There's a gush of water as the bucket is refilled - probably from sun-heated tanks in the upper floors - and then a second bucket is poured over you and you let out a slow, happy breath.

This. This makes all the cost of this place worth it.

The girl settles herself behind you, having shed her robe, and starts to attend to your hair. "Lady," she murmurs, "do you wish me to trim your ends? I notice that whatever burned you also singed your hair."

That sounds like a wonderful idea, and you tell her as much. So you sit here in the warm, steamy place as she gets a comb and a pair of scissors and gets to work. After that, she lathers your hair up and rinses it out, before pinning it up. After that, she moves her attentions onto your body.

Attentions which, you swiftly realise, are salacious in intent. When her hands start to go places you're not comfortable with, you decide to step in.

"Girl," you say, sharply, twisting. "If I wanted the Venusian arts, I'd tell you. I don't."

She immediately flinches back, neck bent in an instinctive half-bow. "I am sorry, I thought… that is, I was told that you… that…" She pauses. "Am I not satisfactory?"

"I understand quite well the erotic possibilities of washing someone's back," you say crisply. "You know what you're doing. But it does nothing for me. If you were a handsome young man with," you run a finger along her chin, "perhaps a nice beard, then things would be different. But you are quite obviously not male," you say, perhaps unnecessarily given that you're both naked. "So my interest is only in washing the dust of the road away."

"Should I leave and find you one of the…"

"Goodness gracious, no," you say, vaguely offended. "If I wanted a courtesan, I'd ask for one. I wanted a maid. Are you capable of serving as one?" Urgh, this is so annoying. Idiot hotel, thinking they're helping you. Is it so much to ask that you're just given a girl who can do your hair and run errands for you?

"Well, yes, of course I can serve as your maidservant, but…"

"But what?" You're getting irked now. It's quite taken you out of your relaxed state, and you have half a mind to see which fool thought your request for a maid meant you wanted a harlot and make your displeasure known. Is this some local euphemism you didn't know about?

"... nothing, my lady."

"Good." You drum your fingers on the bench. "I've been on the road for too long, and I notice you're quite nicely shaven. Do your hair-cutting talents extend to body hair? Or will you have to get someone else in?"

"I… I am trained, my lady. Shall I fetch the blades?"

You nod. "Good. Go ahead, girl."

She breaks out the brushes and razors and wax, and does quite a nice job of it. She's quite talented - she only nicks you once, and if you're to be quite honest, that was partly your fault for sneezing at precisely the wrong time. She's suitably apologetic, and once your arms and legs are shaved, she helps you into the steaming hot bath. You cover your eyes with a wet flannel and soak, while she bustles around the room, cleaning up and putting the supplies back where they're meant to be.

Urgh, now you're all unrelaxed, your mind is working. The girl knows what she's doing. But somehow you don't think her family would want you hiring her. This looks like a family operation in all the worst ways.

The question is whether she likes it here. And how much loyalty she has to her family. Either way, you should try to coax your way into good opinions if it doesn't obstruct anything else you need or want. You deserve a maid who can see to your appearance, and if this girl can handle the other duties you'd expect of her, you're basically morally obliged to try to steal her away.

Hmm. At some point, you should probably ask her name. Not today, though. You have other plans.

"Oh, and by the way, girl," you say, lifting the towel off your face.

"Yes, my lady?" She pauses in her tidying.

"I need a few things organised for me. I need paper - no doubt there will be someone in the bazaar who sells it. Have it delivered to my room. And secondly, what is the practice here when a lady wishes for a tailor? Is there someone on the staff, or do you have to bring someone else in?"

The girl's head bobs back and forwards. "Uh… my great-aunt Sajida handles such things. It depends on what your ladyship wants. We have people on the staff, but for certain… specialised requests, we must send for people in town."

"Well, in that case, chop chop!" You clap twice. "Run off and tell her that I wish to meet with her. I have certain orders to place."

As the girl's feet echo away, you sigh in relief and slump deeper into the steaming water. How relaxing. You've missed having servants. It just makes it so much easier to handle things.

You are preparing for a war, and a tailor will be needed to make sure you are properly armed and armoured. It will be an expensive thing, to gird yourself for the kinds of battle you specialise in.

Except, oh wait, no, it won't. After all, the contract quite clearly says that the Cerulean Lotus will provide these services free of charge if they are in-house, and you intend to refill your wardrobe before they realise that clause is there.

You might be alone in the bath, but you indulge in more than a little laughter to yourself. These fools! You have tricked the very princes of chaos into deals that benefit you! A hotel is not even a worthy opponent!

The day passes by. You have a very productive meeting with the old woman and several house tailors she brings in. When you return, you eat and then instruct Amigere to clean himself thoroughly in the bath house.

By the time he's done, it's getting dark and the temperature is thankfully falling outside. You're sitting on your bed, looking out the vast window at the expanse of Old Cahzor.

There are so few lights. Barely any. The lights are marks of life, and there are far fewer in the dark valley below than there are in the darkening sky overhead. Venus and Mercury are in the east, and you sit and listen to the calls of the priests out in the city as night sweeps in. Up in the sky, you see the gleam of the aurora, the remnants of what was once a wyldstorm that crashed against the shores of the world. You always used to love to watch them when you were a girl, even though others told you they were ill omens.

When you hear the main door open, you quickly dart around, lighting the oil lamps, and then return to your bed, posing yourself quite elegantly if you do say so yourself.

"Oh, Amigere," you call out. "Can you just come in here?" You pitch your voice just right, so his body knows what you're planning even if his mind remains unaware.

He crosses the main room, spends a moment working out it's a sliding door - you repress a giggle at that - and then enters.

When he sees you, he swallows hard. As he should.

As it turned out, the Cerulean Lotus had an entire wardrobe of already-made garments that matched what you were looking for. The old lady who had maintained it mentioned that they'd accumulated them over the years - and that most came from salvage in the city below.

You'd picked out a sheer black negligee that was as thin as smoke that happened to be in your size. Whatever ancient Cahzori lady had commissioned it, she clearly had excellent taste and a fine figure. The sheer fabric conceals nothing at all; your dragon necklace below it catches the light of the lamps and gleams where it nestles in your cleavage.

The air smells of pine and mountain flowers; your hair stirs in an unseen breeze. All the little blemishes and tirednesses of normal life aren't there anymore. You look like a divine and holy being worthy of worship.

Y'know. Because that's what you are, and he should be very grateful that someone like you is willing to bed someone like him.

"Come over here, darling," you whisper, crocking a finger at him.

He pulls the expression you've learned is a grin, already pulling off his loose kaftan. The pale fabric pools at his feet. You're now able to fully admire his build in the dim light; the way the flickers pick out the contours of his ribs and where they end, the rainbow gleam of certain feathers, the long curve of his calves still shaped and formed by his leggings. And of course, the cute little trail of hair which appears from his loincloth, rising up to his navel.

Huh. It's funny to think about that here and now, but you suppose that means he must have been a live birth. If he'd hatched, he wouldn't have had a navel.

Urgh, shut up, thinky brain. You don't actually care about that. Not now. Not when he's about to take off his girdle, and that would involve removing those leggings and what they do to the shape of his calves. "Uh uh uh," you say quickly. "Keep them on."

"Really?" he asks.

"I like how they make your legs look." You sit up, patting the bed next to you. "You can lose the loincloth, though. You won't be needing it."

He does just that, and Dragons, he is very pleased to see you. As he should be. The bed groans under his weight, and you shift to sit next to him.

"I thought you were angry at me," he says.

"Angry?"

"You've turned me down ever since that evil goddess kidnapped me. I thought you were mad at me for getting captured."

Angry? You give him a playful slap on the hand. "I was healing, you moron. When a woman gets all cut up and burned, she's not very interested in sex until she's feeling better. And after that, both of us smelled too much of the road for me to be very interested. I like my playmates to be clean - and I like being clean myself."

"I am a moron. Mama always told me I stuck my beak into dangerous things," he admits. Cheeky boy. "But that's all part of my charm."

"Am I a dangerous thing?"

"Oh yes, my lady. You're as dangerous as the snake on your arm." But there's a playful note in his voice. "And your tongue is even more cutting."

"Well, that's very good. I put a lot of effort into earning that tattoo. I'd hate to have people think I was safe." You smirk, painted lips curling up. "In or out of the bedroom."

Ah, yes, the little note of danger with you turns him on. He's wanted you, wanted you for days - and now that you went to all this effort (and it was definitely effort) to make yourself even more beautiful, he's telling himself stories about how you adore him to do all this for you.

"I love you, you silly little boy," you murmur to him, slipping your hand down to stroke him.

This close, you feel his gulp as much as you hear it. "You do?"

"Oh yes. So." You kiss him on the side of the beak, leaving a bright red mark of lip paint there. "I'm going to give you a night like you've never had before. Doesn't that sound. Just. Wonderful."

And with that said, you dip your head down and make his life much, much more interesting.

Things progress pretty much as you had hoped, and as the evening progresses you find yourself face up against the wall-size window, pressed against the glass.

Behind you, a hunky birdman who's currently filling you up and whispering sweet little things about how good this is and how good this feels. Oh, you've heard such things before, but praise is always nice.

In front of you, cool glass that your nipples rub against with each push, sliding over the smooth surface. And beyond that, the ruins of Old Cahzor. Can anyone down there see you? Probably not, but the idea is pleasing. You bite your lip, bracing yourself better, and push back with each thrust. Yes, imagine that; the masses of that dead city, looking up and seeing a goddess like yourself. The men wanting you; the women wanting to be you. Them crying out your name. The handsomest men among them begging to serve you. To adore you. Fighting over who gets to share your bed each night - and you'll have your pick.

This you… you v-v-vow, you think to yourself, gasping. The city beyond the window and the man behind you aren't very different. And will share the same fate in the end.

You'll take them; keep them; hold them as long as you want. They'll be yours.

That thought, that glorious thought pushes you over the edge, and you howl out your wordless vow.

Dear Amigere, dear stupid Amigere thinks it was all him, and he picks up his pace. He's half-holding you upright, and you feel each push into you. His breaths are warm against your neck, and you can feel him tremble.

"Come on," you gasp to him, "give me everything you've got."

His breath hitches at your encouragement, he tenses up, and with a cute little moan he releases within you. You squeeze down on him, and the moan turns into a groan as he pushes deep inside. You can feel the heartbeat in his thighs up against your behind.

Amigere slips out of you, already softening, and staggers over to a nearby plush armchair, collapsing into it. His eyes are shut; his beak just a little open as he gasps. You pull yourself upright and lean back against the glass while you get your breath back. That… that was fun, you think. With a man you can't kiss - because he has no lips - you're not really losing anything when he takes you from behind. And this isn't cramped fumbling in a cabin, or something so rudely interrupted.

Dragons, you've gone too long without getting properly laid.

In the lamp light, you admire your handiwork; his flushed skin, the way his chest flutters, the lip-paint marks on his beak marking him as yours. And of course, the sight of the sweet sticky mess of his groin. Aww. Cute baby. He thinks it's over for the night.

"You're… you're definitely something," he says weakly, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He notices you approaching, sashaying up to him. "What?"

"Do you think you're done yet?" you whisper, stroking his side. Sweeping your hair aside, you kneel between his legs, lavishing his length with kisses.

He gasps at that. "Just… one moment." His body betrays him, though, as blood rushes to it again. It twitches, rising back up. "Need to… breath back."

You push him against the back of the chair, and straddle him. He stands erect against your belly, sticky and red. He can't take his eyes off you. "Darling," you inform him, "I promised you a night like you'd never had before. It's still night."

His beak parts in a hoarse gasp as you slip him back in. His hands go to your waist as you start to ride him.

"And besides. This time, we don't have a nasty goddess to interrupt. You still owe me."

There are hints of pink in the eastern sky, enough to pick out the ancient looming statues that line the valley.

Lying in bed on top of the sheets, you're tired and aching but sated. You hook one leg over Amigere, brushing up against him. Your scent and touch wakes him from his doze. He's heavy-lidded and love-drunk, just as you planned.

"Now, darling," you murmur in his ear. "Wasn't that fun?"

"Yes," he exhales. "It was. I'm aching."

"Aww, poor darling." You pet him. "But you've been wanting me for days."

"... I," he yawns, "... you're a lot of woman to handle."

You laugh, running your hands over your body. Oh, he has no idea. "Yes. Yes, I am. But are you feeling better?" You lean in. "I made sure that was special for you," you whisper to him.

"Mmm." He seems on the edge of dozing off again.

"And that's not all. The night's not over yet. There's something I want to show you. A little something I picked up. Would you like to see it?" Your voice is a husky purr in his ear, and you feel his delightful frisson from your presence. Your fingers twine through his feathers, lulling him.

"Please," he groans, "please, just… I have to sleep. I'm not," he yawns again, "not a dragon in human skin. I'm exhausted."

"Oh, but you'll really like this." You lean over, fetching something you prepared earlier. "If you want to see this - and trust me, you do - just sign here…"

"Sign what?"

"It's very, very valuable," you say. "It's just an agreement not to tell anyone else. I want you," you let the words hang in the air, "on my team, Amigere. Darling boy."

It takes a little more coaxing, but he signs the quite extensive contract you drew up. Rising from bed, you put it somewhere safe, and slip on a morning gown.

There are certain schools of philosophical thought that suggest that it's perhaps not legitimate to get a man's agreement when he's exhausted and overstimulated. Those schools of thought are for cowards, you think as you rap at the door of the small room next door where your maid is assigned. And rap again, when you've waited a decent amount of time.

She finally answers the door bleary-eyed and clearly just out of the tiny bed you see in the closet-sized room.

"Girl," you say. "We're heading down to the baths for a morning wash."

"Bwuh?"

"Bathhouse. Morning wash. Come with me," you say, speaking loudly and slowly in Firetongue.

Honestly. Some people.

After cleaning up, a small breakfast, and a chance to explore the grounds of the hotel, your patience eventually wears thin and you drag Amigere out of bed.

"Darling, you can't sleep all through the cool hours of the day," you say. "Take a nap at midday if you're so tired."

He's only half-awake, and yawning. You admire the nail marks you left in his back - signs of a job well done. And he's still in that adorable leggings and girdle combination that makes his calves look so scrumptious. "You kept me up all night," he grumbles.

"Hardly." You flick him on the beak. "But I said I had something wonderful to show you, and," you throw open the door to the walk-in closet, where there's now a bucket of earth you picked up on your walk, "this is it!" You glance around, looking for any flowers that might mark a spying spirit. None.

He looks at you like he's not sure if you're joking. "A… jar o'dirt?" he tries, rubbing his face.

"Watch, and learn." You deploy the jadescroll, and then sit back in the armchair you brought in, crossing your legs. He hasn't noticed he's only wearing his leggings yet, and you're not going to tell him. Just as it unfolds, you blow out the oil lamp, leaving the room in darkness.

"What's the…"

The blue light of the ancient map lights your face from below. It shimmers and wavers like the sea. You stare at Amigere's wide eyes, lips curling up at his astonishment. Oh, that's certainly shaken off his exhaustion.

"Sufficiently impressive enough for you, darling?" you ask rhetorically.

"How... how did you find this?" he exhales. "That's a jadescroll."

"Yes it is."

"This is incredible."

"Why do you think I'm in the South, when it's awfully hot and not very comfortable?" you ask him, lying blatantly. "I found this in my homeland, and something like this is too fascinating to pass over."

"I can see that," he whispers, reaching out with one hand and brushing his hand through the glowing light. "Yes. This is definitely Cahzor. And..." he jabs his finger out, "at the minimum, it pre-dates Piercing Sun's invasion. Look, the old palace of the Sugun is still standing. So it's before the war with Gem."

"How old do you think it is?" you ask.

"I'm... not sure." Amigere runs his hands through his feathered scalp. "It's younger than the Shogunate, though. Look, you can see the ruins down at the eastern end of the valley, and..." He shrugs, meeting your eyes. "Maybe late first century or early second century, if I had to guess. The river's still there and healthy, and," he taps the top of the dam, "not only has the Demio's fortress not been built, but neither has this place."

You lean in, fascinated. "Wait, so this place is older?"

"Yes, the hotel predates most of Cahzor-Upon-Dam. It," he yawns, "sorry, the Cerulean Lotus, by my understanding it started just as a hotel overlooking the city, and expanded as Cahzor came to dominate the Fire Mountains."

"So they built their seat of power next to the hotel?" you ponder out loud.

"Mmm." Amigere looks serious. "We need copies of this."

"I need a copy of this," you contradict him. "This is mine. I like you, but this has to remain secret. And you agreed to that."

He visibly squirms. "But this is huge. My love, my darling, of course you want me for this. I'll be proud to organise your expeditions for you."

"Of course you will," you tell him, and your smile broadens. "And I'll be with you every step of the way." You shut the jadescroll down, producing a more recent, modern map of the ruined city below that you had the hotel procure for you. "Now, let's see some of that expertise. Let's start estimating how much expeditions to a few nominal locations would cost."

You work him like a dog until you can see he's too tired to go, and then you leave him to head back to his room, while you sprawl out in the main room on a divan and think.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or are you out of bed before midday, my lady?" an annoying voice inquires.

"Shut up, Sei," you say without looking his way.

"To think that you've remembered about the existence of dawn. I thought you'd forgotten, my lady. Back when you used your treachery and cunning to enslave me - and some day I'll make you pay - you were always up early."

"It's just the local weather," you say, looking over the papers. "It's too hot at noon here, while back home it's awful to be up until the day's warmed up."

"Are you sure, my lady?"

"Go away, Sei. I'm busy. Go chase mice, or try to seduce a passing she-cat and leave her with a litter of abominations against nature." You look up for him. "And don't you dare make a comment about how I'm projecting!"

But he's gone. Of course he is. It's so annoying when he vanishes rather than respond. It's like getting the last word in, except it also ruins your attempts at getting the last word.

You purse your lips, looking over Amigere's scrawled jottings. You'd underestimated the costs of operating in this landscape, where water is an expense that has to be budgeted for and food is even more expensive than Cherak. With the expenses of staying here, your funds are stretched rather thin and declining fast. You have a season booked in this place but it's consuming a lot of your limited money. Soon, perhaps in a fortnight or so, you should launch a small expedition to test the veracity of the map - and get some experience down in the no-doubt ferocious heat of Old Cahzor.

Article:

So, a reminder on Rena. As per her Charms and Styles section, she is actually kind of terrifying when it comes to exploitative deals via Smiling Siaka Style (which she has because you picked Contracts as one of her means of power) and her sheer force of personality via Petal-Wreathed Diva Style (which she has because you picked Idolatry).

Anyway, time to get to know Cahzor-Upon-Dam. And prepare for your first trip down into Old Cahzor.

Pick Three Things Rena Gets Up To Which Also Advance Her Goal Of Building An Expedition

[ ] Gamble and Relax in the Casino - As far as you can tell, the other guests at the Cerulean Lotus are a mix of well-off travellers and jansi aristrocrats from down in the city. Either way, they have money. And you want money.
[ ] Hobnob with the Local Elite - The local jansi families are the powerhouses. There are several jansi clans up here in Cahzor-upon-Dam. Surely a sorceress could be of use to some of them...
[ ] Go Shopping in the Bazaar - You deserve nice things. And while you are obtaining nice things for yourself, you can also look into information on the trade ties to the city below and narrow down where might be a good place that hasn't been plundered yet.
[ ] Investigate the Mercenary Market - The lovely thing about mercenaries is that they provide their own equipment. Yes, some people might want to do it the boring, hard way, but money is all you really need to build an expedition. And failing that, ties might be useful - after all, what mercenary wouldn't appreciate the services of a war-sorceress?
[ ] Become a Benevolent Figure For The Poor - Darling, you know what's wonderful? Being adored and maybe even worshipped. Spread some coin around (not too much) and see what bubbles to the surface.
[ ] Chase Occult Rumours - All large communities have people who dabble in things that scare pathetic small-minded fools. Some of them generate rumours. Others pay for the sources of rumours being removed. You can do both. And of course, you can always hope there might be some fae in the area.

EarthScorpion · Oct 9, 2019

XV. Smoke and Sunlight

The sands here, under the burning light, smell of rust. The banners on the old, sand-worn walls are dominated by reds and bronzes. The sun-faded canvas covers flap over the stands in the light breeze, sounding like wings. And indeed, sometimes bird shadows pass over the floor of the fighting pits. They're circling. Hungry.

The vultures are here. Waiting for the roar of the crowd to go down.

But the last fight didn't end in a death, and so there is nothing for them to eat. Not yet. But they know what the clamour of the pit means.

Down on the sands, two fighters do their best to maim each other. For your amusement.

The taller fighter is a scarred brute of a woman who must have deyha blood somewhere. She's a wall of ocre war paint, wearing a polished bronze helmet styled after a bull. You're not sure if the horns are functional weapons, but they're definitely sharp. Her entire right flank is armoured up and she carries a brutal-looking cleaver, but that's nearly all she wears. And the slimmer, smaller man with the net and the spear and the monkey-helmet wears just as little. That's the draw in these arena fights, you've noticed - all the 'real' fighters have their own styles and their own unique helmet designs.

The crowd roars its approval as the Monkey slams the butt of his spear into the She-Bull's armour, producing a clang that's audible even over the noise. She falls back, her cleaver dancing a figure-of-eight in the air and he tries to circle, whirling his net like he means to ensnare her. You suck in air through your teeth.

Dammit, you have money riding on her!

The Monkey lunges, helmet gleaming in the fierce sun. His spear scrapes along her armour, but he's misjudged it and now she's in his reach. She reaches out, and with a fierce backhand sends him flying. He kicks up clouds of sand as he hits, and for a moment you can't see what's happening. Your She-Bull charges in - and goes down, hitting the sandy floor hard. What was that?

"His net!" cheers the woman next to you. "Take her down!"

As the sand clears, they've both dropped their weapons and now are brawling like a pair of tavern toughs. No, that's not right, you realise as the Monkey rolls away, and flips to his feet, keeping his back straight, his posture low. He's taken the stance of Grinning Ape Style, while the She-Bull is fighting with the hulking strength of Ox Style. Her fists are lethal, but she's not landing her blows. He's dancing around, light on his feet. Neither are trying to get their weapons, and… ah, yes.

They're professionals. If they're both unarmed, it's more likely they're both going to walk away from this.

Well, that's removed the tension from things. You slump back in your seat, sipping at your slightly resinous wine. It's changed the whole tenor of the fight.

You are here at the invitation of Sadia az-Zumurrud, who right now is cheering on her chosen fighter. She's a petite woman, with a puckish appearance. Her short-cropped hair pokes out from under her loose silken veil; her green eyes gleam with bloodlust in the bright light. You met her gambling, and immediately realised she was much more intelligent - much more dangerous - than most of the jansi aristocrats at the casino. She's clearly someone who keeps an eye on things, and that means she's a source of information on the politicking and the backstabbing of the jansi.

These clans are… you make a disgusted noise to yourself. It's an old story, much like that of House Ferem. They were more fortunate than your ancestors - at least at first. Three hundred years ago, they would have sneered down their noses at the Odat. The jansi trace their descent back to the legions who fled the burning of the Anam, and unlike your family, they never bent their knee to the Realm. But they wasted their fortunes through sloth and incompetence, and let their dragon-blood weaken. There are jansi who have had no dragon-children in generations, and when they do have them, often they leave for cities that are not slowly rusting in the heat.

Among those who have not left is the Demio of Cahzor-Upon-Dam. Naima ar-Redar is a child of Pasiap, and is even older than you. She's said to be a recluse, who seldom comes from out of the fortress. That's just fine. She can have the fortress, while you enjoy the luxuries of her city.

Down on the arena floor, the Monkey trips the She-Bull, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She's clearly exhausted and struggling to rise, and though he's not moving much more nimbly, he manages to grab his fallen spear and place it against the back of her neck.

"Damn," you mutter as the crowd cheers. "That's money down the drain."

Sadia looks over at you with a quirk of one of her plucked eyebrows. "Did you think she'd win just because of her size?"

"He looks like a piece of nothing," you protest.

"Oh, that's the nature of this sport." The corners of her eyes crinkle up in merriment. "He's very fast. And she doesn't have the reach to deal with his spear. Did you see how many places she was bleeding from by the end?"

With a grumble, you pay up, and she beams at you. "At least you're a good sport when you're beaten," she says slyly. "Some people squall and whine."

"It was no great amount - just an idle flutter," you lie. It was more money than you'd like to have lost, but fortunately you had made some winnings at the casinos. Still, that consumed most of them. There are enough dragon-children in Cahzor that some of your comparative advantage is lessened. They know how to deal with people like you.

Sadia leans back, pouring herself more wine as the She-Bull limps off and the Monkey takes his celebratory stand. Slaves rake the sand back into place, tossing fresh sand on where blood splattered with practiced speed. "Are you doing anything this evening?" she asks.

"No." Ah ha! A chance! "Why?"

"Well, the Kinzira are holding a party, and my would-be date has dropped out on me. Idiot caught the sun." She sniffs. "Men! So if you're going to be staying for the season, you really ought to get to know the social scene. And those fat morons do throw rather good parties. They should, with all the money they spend on entertainment."

"Oh?" you ask.

A hot wind picks up, blowing in over the stands. "Mmm, yes. The Kinzira control the area," she gestures vaguely towards the southern side of the stands, "overlooking the Little Nam. They have their holdings in 'Zor-South-Pass, but they also have the mines. They've been digging away at the ground as much as they rootle in a barrel to get out the last of the dregs. They're as greedy as the Alliya, but they gorge their income as fast as they take it in." She shakes her head disgustedly, her silken veil puffing up. "As disgusting as they are."

"You're not selling attending their party to me," you observe.

"Oh, please do, please do! The food will certainly be fine, and you'll be the most interesting person there. I know everyone else who'll be attending; you'll certainly lighten up the conversation! And otherwise I'll have to deal with my great-aunt all on my own! You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"Well," you say, as if it's some great imposition, "I suppose I could."

"Thank you, thank you." She crosses her legs. "Now, care for another flutter? This time, it's a killing floor match."

"A killing floor match?" you ask.

"Oh, do they not have them where you come from?" She laughs. "Well, it's one of the Demio's little amusements. Certain criminals can be sentenced to the arena. Those who do well, they rise up! Like your She-Bull! If the crowd love them, they win a mask! But they start at the bottom! Such criminal scum are mere animals, after all."

The Monkey has left the pit, and now the gates on either side open. Slaves push a heavy iron cage. The wheels clank and clatter ominously. No, it's not just the wheels. There's something inside. Clang. Clang. Clang. It's hammering on the walls. Pounding on them.

You focus your sight. There are water lilies, blooming through the joins of the cage. Powerful magic - likely a curse of some kind. That tells you something. The Demio is a sorceress too, or has one in her employ at the very least.

"And what do they fight?" you ask, mouth dry. You sip at your wine, trying to remedy it - but it doesn't work.

"Oh, slaves, captured bandits, people who have displeased the Demio," Sadia says idly. "I heard a raiding party from one of the lower Cahzors got captured, so something tells me we're going to see plenty of killing floor matches until she's exhausted her supply."

"How amusing," you say, though in truth your heart isn't in it. It's not that you don't respect the right of a sorceress to find her own amusement. But a lady's amusements say a lot about her. And you don't like what this says about the Demio. Yes, you may have fed the souls of your enemies, and a few people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to the princes of chaos. But in your defence, they had things you wanted! And you had witnesses to dispose of!

The Demio's amusements suggest she likes death in its own right.

From the other side enter four men and three women, stripped naked and with fresh brands on their backs. They have weapons, of a kind - but you can see that they've been stopped from throwing them. Their limbs are wrapped with chains, or they carry tiger claws or cestuses their hands have been locked into. Even from this distance, you can see the fear on their faces.

The slaves who dragged in the cage are already running, and you can see the smoke from a slow match placed against the rope holding it closed.

"Do you know what…" you begin, but then the door slams open.

Out comes a hulking beast. It was once a woman, and perhaps it still is, but what it mostly is now is three metres of muscle and fur and teeth. They took a human and a fox, and then made something more - and less - than the sum of the two. Sand-coloured fur over a roughly human body; claws like no fox has; large ears and larger teeth and eyes without a drop of humanity or mercy.

"Oh, a new one!" Sadia observes, almost girlishly. "I wonder if this one will earn a mask."

"The She-Bull and the Monkey used to be like that?" you ask, horrified.

She smiles at you, clearly revelling what is about to come. "Sometimes, when the masked fighters are fighting a deathmatch, she lets them take on those forms again. It's quite a thing to watch."

The fox-like monster screams like a dying woman, and bounds on all fours towards the terrified cluster of men and women.

Red stains the arena floor.

Ah, Cahzor. It almost makes a perverse logic. The Demio declares them to be stripped of their humanity. So that's what she does to them. To make a sorcerous beast of this nature, you can only imagine what she does to them. And no doubt she still maintains control over them, both the transformed beast and the ones she permits to look human again.

But you know of this kind of magic. Of the costs it imposes, of the twisting of the soul one needs. You doubt the masked fighters are truly human any more. She's taken too much from them. So she lets her people cheer for the beasts in human skin she'll use to make an example of anyone who threatens her rule. They get to see the power of her slaves, and cheer for one or another.

"Damn!" Sadia says. "I forgot to set the terms of a wager!"

You watch as the fox-monster takes a sword-cut on its overly muscled forearm and keeps going, removing the offending arm with its own blade-length claws. "What would that have been, out of interest?" you ask, trying to sound ambivalent.

"Oh, we'd bet on how long it'd take to kill them all." She grins. "It's fairly challenging. Sometimes they play with their prey."

"I see." You swallow. You can smell the coppery tang in the air, even from this distance. "I see."

After that massacre, you make your excuses and retreat to the hotel, to relax in the baths before your evening out. Then comes the great and threatening conundrum; what do you wear?

Definitely not red. You've seen enough red today.

"Blue and black? Or white and gold?" You hold up the two gowns so Amigere can see them. "Which looks better on me?"

He eyes you up. "You'd look beautiful in both."

That's true, but not helpful. "Yes but which one would I look better in?"

"Maybe you should try them on?" he suggests.

"Not yet! I'll need the maid's help to get into these!" Urgh, he is not at all helpful. What you want is a nice wholesome answer as to whether the black leaves you looking too pale… or on the converse, whether all that white makes you look washed out. And he's not providing it! He's just staring at you in your lingerie as you try to make a difficult decision!

"I think whatever you wear, you'll look wonderful in."

"That is not helpful when it comes to making a choice!" you fume.

He rises, and wraps his arms around you. "I think you're letting the fire in your nature dominate," he says, "and it's making you tense and worried."

"I have to look good at a party of the local aristocrats! I can't have them looking down on me!"

"Well," he pulls at the side ties of your underwear, undoing the bow, "I could help you relax..."

You reach out and jab him in the side with your fingertips. It's a playful gesture, but it's not too different from what you could have done to leave him on the floor, coughing up his own blood. "Darling," you tell him firmly, "I don't have time to get mussed. I have a party to get ready for."

He licks your cheek with that adorable long tongue, in what you've realised is his version of a kiss. Your underthings hit the floor. "Oh, come on, it's not for hours. And mussing is a lot of fun."

"You can muss me up after I get back. But as it stands, I just don't have time to go and have another proper bath if you get me all dirty."

"But…"

You poke him on the other side. "If you really can't wait, you have hands. Use them."

He huffs, and backs away. You shake your hair, and pick up your fallen underwear. "I think I'll go for the black and blue," you decide. "Now, Amigere!"

"What?" he demands, sulkily. His tongue is hanging out.

"... are you pouting?" you ask, your free hand on your hips.

"I don't have lips. How can I pout?" he mutters.

You sigh. "Darling, I will make love to you later, if you're very good. Right now I'm busy." You slip on your dressing gown. "Now, how are matters going with regards to finding contacts in the city?"

"I've been poking around the mercenary market."

"And?" you ask, after a suitable pause.

"It's only been a few days! What do you expect?"

Urgh, mortals! So exasperatingly slow. And now he's acting all huffy. "I'm sure you've done very well," you tell him, approaching and running your fingers across his feathered head. He relaxes as you stroke him, breathing in your scent. "Now, darling, what are the broad quality of the local mercenaries?"

He blinks, clearly not quite sure which head he's meant to be thinking with. "Uh… well, they're mostly the… um. So, the thing is, a lot of the jansi are poor. So when they get into their wars, they tend not to pay their soldiers. A lot of the people in the markets here are either the personal guard of one of the jansi being hired out for cash, or people they've raised and not paid - so rather than scrape the sandy dry soil, they take their training to the mercenary markets here or in Cahzor-Grand-Bazaar." He leans against your hand. "And from there, the ones who do well go to Gem."

"So the local mercenaries are mostly trash?" you check. "Men who know how to scrap, but with little discipline and poor morale."

"Yes."

"Fuck," you say eloquently. You tickle his chin. "Well, you'll keep on looking, won't you?" you ask him.

"Mmm, mmm."

Hmm. You consider the two dresses. Maybe you can't decide because neither is right. There was that one in green...

The estate of Jansi Kinzira is not truly within Cahzor-upon-Dam. It's on the southern slope, past the landship dock, sprawling out over the hillside above the foetid lake. And 'sprawling' is a fine word for what it does. The members of the jansi have their own holdings on these steep slopes, gnawing at the hillsides so they can feast on what precious things remain in the mountains. Bulging piles of slag and rubble are littered around like bones in the feasting hall of an oni. There are scars on the land from where these mounds have slipped, and even a filthy shanty town where human ants swarm over the leftovers of the Kinzira.

Even as you reach the centre of their ancestral holdings, things are little better. There is no grace to this shapeless, formless mass of low buildings that huddle around the fortified bulk of what was clearly once a mighty citadel. But its walls are punched through time and time again, by ancient weapons that left the edges of the craters transformed into umber glass. The sandstone that stoppers up the pyramid has been built into more corpulent bulk; towers rise up from holes in the upper layers, while additional wings spill out of its guts.

"Novel architecture," you say mildly. You did choose the soft greens and sunny browns, in a long archaic cut that bares your midriff and draws attention to your cleavage and the dragon nestled within. The colours stand out in this dry, sandy landscape - and of course, brings to mind an adder. A few turquoises and tiger's eyes are placed to evoke a peacock, though you doubt anyone else gets the reference.

You do enjoy these moments.

Sadia sneers behind her thin veil, sitting side-saddle on her steed. She's dressed in what you suspect are more plunderings from the city below; layer upon layer of nearly sheer black, picked out with emeralds and verdigris jewelry. "The Kinzira," she says with a roll of her eyes, "are a fine reminder that there is a reason that things are done a certain way. Their fortress is quite worthless as a fortress these days - of course, the Demio wants it that way."

"Not a fan of rivals?"

"No, certainly not. That old hag is paranoid, who trusts nothing and nobody." She laughs. "Of course, given most of the jansi, it's not a surprise, but it makes her awfully hard to deal with when you are one of her trustworthy servants."

Speaking as someone who has to deal with Sei, anyone who self-describes as 'trustworthy' isn't. You smile, and make small conversation as the two of you ride up to the abomination of architecture that is the Kinzara estate. Her guards help her down, and she leads the way through the thick walls of the ancient fortress, both of you carrying parasols.

"Oh, Sadia, my girl!" The woman who greets her from an alcove is one hell of a woman. In fact, she's more like three women, at least in terms of weight. She's only Sadia's height, but she's so obese that you resist the urge to make a comment about her weakness to slopes. Her hair is bleached as blonde as straw, and her wrinkles and her fat-folds are merging giving her a face like a landslide. "Come here and give your great-aunt a kiss!"

"Auntie!" Sadia brings her into a close embrace, or at least as close as can be managed.

"And who is this? A new lover?"

"Hardly! Great-Aunt Kareena, this is Meira, of the Sayu family. She's from far in the north. I brought her along because I met her when I was having a little flutter and I thought she might bring a sparkle of glee and joy to your party."

"I am pleased to meet you," you tell the tiny woman, who almost bounces up to you and brings you down to kiss you on both cheeks. She smells sour, unwashed, and the pudgy feel of her clammy fingers on your face brings to mind uncooked sausages.

"Oh, look at you, so tall and so slender!" she says, looking you up and down. Her brown eyes gleam wickedly. "Well, not all slender! It all goes to your breast and your thighs! Like a chicken! Good for eating!"

You smile. "Darling," you tell her, kissing her back though she makes your skin crawl, "I suppose I just have good blood."

She squints up at you; your green eyes, the flowers in your hair, your smell, and comes to a conclusion. "Do I have the honour of speaking to a daughter of Iulis?"

You blink. "Uh…"

"Great-Auntie, she's foreign, remember?" Sadia reminds the woman. "She's asking if you have the blood of the Wood Dragon."

"Oh, that." You smile. "It does rather show, doesn't it?"

"How delectable!" She pats you on the hand. "My grandfather was just like you," she says conspiratorial. "They said when I was a little girl, I was a perfect little blossom."

"And you've grown up to be a beautiful cedar," you lie gallantly.

"Ah!" Kareena smiles at Sadia. "She is a charmer! I like her!"

"I like her too, auntie," Sadia says with a smile. "But perhaps we can get in, out of the heat."

"Oh yes, yes." She shakes her head. "I must admit, Sadia, I thought you were not bringing a guest - well, not after what happened with…"

Sadia makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat as you walk through the shadowed walls, into an inner courtyard. Desert plants sprawl up the walls, but what were clearly once grand gardens have been turned into fields. "Auntie, please!"

"Yes, yes, of course not. But my dumpling, where are we to sit her? We can't risk offending people! And so many people have showed! Including people from both Kas and Dib!"

Sadia sucks in her breath. The three of you huddle under your parasols for the burning hot walk. "Well, she can't sit with either of them, because we can't put them near each other and if she's seated with one of them, then the other will take it as an insult!"

"Oh, how right you are, my sweetling! You always were the brightest of my nieces! What a shame about your…"

"Auntie!"

"I do beg your pardon," you say. "The Kas? The Dib? From what you say, there might be a fight?"

"I should hope not," Great-Aunt Kareena says. "But… well… we do know Haitham…"

"Haitham is here?" Sadia says, turning pale. "Oh no! Please don't tell me that Hilmi ad-Dib is also here!"

"I'm afraid so, my dumpling."

"Oh. Oh dear." Sadia smiles at you. "There will probably be a fight then, when those two get low in their glasses."

"Please don't say such a thing! You know the gods take declarations of ill-will as an invitation!" Kareena gasps.

"Oh, come on, Aunty, isn't there just a teeny bit of you which would like to see those two fools dead by each other's hands?"

"Not under our roof! There is hospitality to think of!"

"Well, we could just make sure they duel each other outside," Sadia mutters, but Kareena's already moved her attention to you as you stroll pass rows of tomatoes growing in sandy soil.

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Meira," she says. "How far have you travelled? And what do you think of our fair city?"

"It's certainly unusual," you say. "So very dry and hot. It's not at all what I'm used to."

"Ah, it's a tragedy, a tragedy!" she says, blotting at her dry eyes with a sleeve. "Even when I was a girl… how long ago do you think that was?"

"Oh, no more than forty, forty-five years ago," you lie.

"She's sixty-eight."

"Sadia!" Kareena pats your hand with those sausage-like fingers. "I prefer your version. But even when I was a girl, the city was much mightier! There was greenery everywhere, and great fountains ran! But we are poor and hungry now! The food I offer here tonight is a passable fare, but nothing compared to what I could have given you if you'd come when I was young and beautiful!" She shakes her head. "I expect you get rains every month."

You chuckle. "Depends on the season, I must admit. In Air and Water… and often Earth, it's not raining because it's snowing."

"Snow! Oh, I've only heard of snow! They say it's like an ashfall of ice!"

Considering that, you… huh. Firstly, the idea of never knowing snow is something you struggle to comprehend. But secondly, that's not the worst metaphor one might manage.

You chatter along the walk to the central pyramidal buildings, scarred by ancient weapons and sandstorms, and then enter into the dark depths. The air smells of burning fat from the candles, and the stone walls near the entryway are greasy. The wall-hangings are none-too-clean, either, and have faint stains down the bottom.

"It's good to get out of the heat," you say, as you put your parasol down.

"Oh, quite so," Sadia says. "Auntie, where are we going?"

"Just need to see where we can put you and your friend," Kareena says, leaning you deeper into the household. The corridors are remarkably bare, twisting and coiling as they lead you through the too empty, too vacant household that clearly holds a fraction of the inhabitants that it was originally meant for. You suspect guests weren't meant to see this part of the house.

Kareena's quarters are painted a deep red, with scenes of hunting and feasting painted as frescos on the walls. The air is perfumed, but under it, there's the scent of old food. She pulls out a seating chart, and considers it.

"Who do you want to sit with?" she asks.

"She doesn't know the families, auntie," Sadia says with a sigh. She looks over the plan. "Hmm. If you move Wafaa… oh, but then they'd be with the Kas and they can't stand any of them. Hmm." She stares at it. "Zia, Fatin or Munir," she says eventually.

"Oh?" you say.

"Well, for one, I don't hate any of them so I won't be driven up the wall by having to sit near them," she says. She taps her lip with her forefinger. "Well, Zia is a Sawahir. They have holdings down in the valley, up near Cahzor-University. He's very bookish, if you don't mind his strangeness. And I suppose it's not like you can bring up his past or his family's reputation for," her eyebrows flute, "you know."

"Well, I don't know," you say, "but from the tone of voice, I can guess."

"You're probably guessing right." Sadia giggles. "He might try to share his erotic poetry with you."

"My goodness."

"It's actually not terrible."

"Sadia!" Kareena says, sounding shocked.

"What? She deserves the truth. If someone's getting you to read their smutty poems, it better be good."

"You can be quite the handful, my dumpling. You should blunt the edges of your tongue." Kareena sighs. "I think Fatin would be a better pick. He," she glances at you, "he's a dragon-child, too. Kin to the Earth Dragon. Very stiff-necked, and proud. Likes to be clean."

Well, that's something. You can respect that. "That's something."

"Not to the extent he takes it," Sadia says cheerfully. "Not to mention, the Kebez jansi, how to put it, doesn't marry outside the family. They don't want to taint the 'purity' of their blood. And… well, I suppose they do have a lot of dragon children, but bluntly they're all idiots."

"Idiots?" you say. Oh, that is something. It happens, of course. People get so obsessed with maintaining blood purity that they wind up… how did your cousin put it? More inbred than a man who falls into a vat of dough. Maybe if the Odat had gone down that path, you would have had more kinfolk who could survive the depredations from the north - but then again, you quite like being the product of a family tree with actual branches.

"Sadia, don't speak ill of them!" Kareena snaps. "They're very touchy."

"I think they're a bad choice." She runs her fingers over the seating plan. "I suppose… there's still Munir. They have their holdings in Cahzor-Industrials, dredging what they can dig out of the old machinery. He's not the prettiest - not after that accident with the machine that left him scarred all down one side - but at least you can talk to him."

"He's a choice, I suppose," Kareena says. "But he does think he's the gods' gift to women, despite that scarring. She might not want to sit around him."

Sadia sighs. "He was gorgeous before the accident, despite his age," she says, shaking her head. "Now… well, I suppose I'll have to make the sacrifice and sit on his left side! But please don't make me do that, Meira! Thinking about it, I really don't want to have to go through a whole meal looking at that! No matter how witty the conversation!"

"I have a strong stomach," you point out. Thinking. Thinking about which of these men it would be most useful to get to know.

Article:

Who Does Rena Sit With?

[ ] Zia as-Sawahir, diminutive and androgynous, whose eyes burn with intensity.
[ ] Fatin ak-Kebez, coldly handsome with stone nails.
[ ] Munir al-Alliya, emaciated and with burn marks down his left side.

EarthScorpion · Oct 14, 2019

XVI. Dinner

You like to think you're a people person.

"... oh oh oh, you must meet Rabia! She's Zia's second cousin - she has 'Zor-Ninth-Boulevard as her holdings. Just keep her away from Daud al-Alliya - they're engaged, but they can't stand each other."

Good with names.

"... so over here is Mila; she's my niece by my older brother.. don't point out how she's plain, she doesn't like it..."

Good with the names of people who matter, at least. Obviously servants don't count.

"Oh! Oh! Azim! He's really very nice, he's Great Aunt Kareena's son, if you didn't notice it already from the waistline. Of course he'll never inherit, but don't tell him that."

But right now, you've kind of got a headache from all the introductions that Sadia's been making. At length. You know much more than you ever planned to about the complex web of relationships and marriages and rivalries and feuds of the jansi. Maybe you want to think about something else for a bit. Or at least until she stops going 'oh'. It's a peculiarly shrill noise that's making your ears hurt.

This antechamber has lavish gold overlays picked out on the ceiling, peeling in the corners, and dry and flaking hunting trophies on the walls. It is filling slowly in dribs and drabs with the jansi guests, all draped in the fineries of former years. You look from left to right, and you doubt that anyone here is wearing clothing which was made fewer than fifty years ago. Maybe a century.

You can see the diluted dragon blood in the crowd. It's not anything in particular. Not precisely. But the hair colours are a little too sharp; the eyes have a certain commonality in shape, and as you watch the movement of people in the crowd, you can focus to see the hints of petals whirling in the air that suggest what their too-weak dragon blood would have expressed itself as. Fire lilies for those with kin to Hesiesh, hearty farm crops for Pasiap...

You glance over at Sadia with a smile. You don't even need to focus to know she'd have hints of mountain blossoms around her. Her nature is ruled by the air.

Of course, she's chattering again, "Over there is Munir." You follow her nod, and you can see a man wearing mostly black, with half his face covered with a silver skull-mask. "Thank goodness he wore his mask. Maybe it's getting through his head that no one wants to see the mess of his left side when they're eating. We should go say hello and… oh, wait, no! Oh!" Another couple approach you, arm in arm. "Fatin, you are looking just radiant today!"

The newcomer looms. "Yes, I am," he rumbles. His voice is deep; his Cahzori accent thick, archaic.

You meet his grey eyes - and they are truly grey, with only his slitted pupils breaking the stony surface. His nails are overlong talons partially hidden under long silk sleeves, and his high-necked collar doesn't conceal that his skin is calcifying into scales. To your sixth sense, he is veritably sprouting with corn. A man whose dragon-blood must remedy flaws in his human kinship; you wonder how sickly he would be if his heritage had not made itself known.

Still, he wears it well. He's coldly handsome, and the knowledge that the body under those antique black and white garments is likely more than a living marble than human flesh and blood doesn't prevent you from admiring his literally statuesque build. His features are well-sculpted; his teeth slightly pronounced; his sandy hair swept back from a widow's peak. He's a giant compared to most of the Cahzori in the room, standing head and shoulders above you.

Your eyes flick south. And you think those breeches are painted on. You have no idea how he gets out of them. You'd like to see, though. It would be an amusing spectacle, with a treat at the end.

The woman beside him, joined arm-in-arm, wears a black blindfold, but there's more than a little kinship there. Not so much in her features; hers are water-softened and her skin is pale blue, gleaming in the lantern light. But her sleeves are long, to cover hands you know must be too long, too talon-like, and she wears yellowing silken gloves under them. Unlike the mist-like veils of other women, she covers her hair completely - if she has any. You think not. The woman doesn't open her mouth, keeping ocean-blue lips pressed together. What she does is hold his wrist, and tap away with a gloved hand.

"Is this the woman who claims to be my kin from distant lands?" he asks.

"I am," you say, looking up at this mountain of a man. "Meira, of the Sayu family."

He looks you down and further down. With those inhuman eyes, it's harder to tell if he's eyeing you up as a woman or as a rival. You think, both. "I am Fatin ak-Kebez, of the jansi Kebez, which inherits from Cabas, which inherits from Cadraca. You address a descendent of the last Shogun of all Creation."

"Goodness me," you say, with an easy smile. "I had no idea such illustrious guests would be at this party. And your beautiful wife?" you ask, storing that name away.

His jaw tenses. "I am unmarried," he says stiffly. "This is Yasmine, my half-sister."

"Ah, my mistake." Blind, and mute? Or at least interested in giving such an impression. "Well, I…"

You lean in to take his hand, and he flinches away. "I prefer not to touch people who have not cleaned themselves properly," he rumbles. "No offence is meant, but I do not know you. And," he stares, brow creasing like a crevice, showing those sharp teeth, "I see that thrice-fooled oaf Haitham ak-Kas is moving in this direction, so I would really not spend time in his disgusting presence. Meira of the Sayu, farewell."

And like that, he turns to go. His half-sister pauses, letting go of his arm for a moment, and she pulls an apologetic face at you and Sadia, cheeks rounded in a wince, hands spread in a shrug. She waves at Sadia, and then you, and then bows slightly. He turns to take her by the shoulder, and leads her away.

Sadia reads your confused look. "It's very sad," she says. "She was born mute, and she lost most of the use of her eyes to creatures down in the ruins. She was never a great beauty, of course, but…" She trails off, and settles her face. "That mountainous inbred oaf wasn't wrong. He might be a moron, but he's tall enough to see over the crowd," she says. "Here comes Haitham."

"Ah, Sadia, I didn't see you in the pack! It's an awfully good turn-out. And you… the stranger we heard so much of. Haitham ak-Kas," the newcomer says. His hair is windblown; his eyes have bags under them and his skin is sallow. Still, despite those blemishes, he is not un-handsome, even though you think he'd look better with a couple of night's rest in a good bed before you graced his. He glances over at Sadia. "Do introduce us."

"Kas," Sadia says shortly, "this is Meira. She's from the far North."

He smiles much more warmly at you than at your companion. "Charmed," he says, with an easy smile. "And what are you doing down in this wretched dying city? Did you get lost?"

You laugh because that's what you're meant to do in response to such things, though there's a bit of you which is starting to feel that, yes, you should have headed down to the South West instead. You'd have made a glorious pirate queen. Too late for that now. "Nonsense. I was heading to Gem originally, but I'd heard stories of Cahzor when I was a girl. I thought I'd stop over - and then, well, with the time of year, I didn't want to be travelling this close to Fire."

Haitham shakes his head sadly. "You made a horrible mistake, then," he tells you. "I suppose we'll just have to invite a winter rose such as yourself to as many parties as possible to make your stay here more pleasant."

A winter rose? You're actually impressed. This man might look like he's falling asleep on his feet, but such a quick blending of your aspect and your origin is to be praised. "I do believe you have studied Shogunate poetry," you tell him.

He flaps his hand at you. "A dalliance, nothing more. A boyhood pursuit, bemoaned by my mother who wished for me to grow up."

"Well, I think it's a charming comment from a desert mouse," you say, alluding to his own clear need to nap upon a warm surface.

He rubs the back of his windblown hair. "I'm sorry, it was a long trip here and I couldn't sleep on camelback," he says. Sadia makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat, and he shifts subtly to direct his attention to you and exclude her from the conversation. "I do hope people haven't been pouring venom in your ears about me."

"Why would they?"

"Oh, simple jealousy, I'm afraid." He grins at you boyishly. "Life is hard when you're second-in-line to the Kas lands."

"Are they extensive?" you ask. "I'm sorry, I'm a stranger to the city and…"

"No, no, it's quite alright. You're not to know. Yes, in fact, my jansi has the greatest holdings down in the Old City, so," he laughs, "they have plenty of reason to be jealous." He looks around. "I'm sorry, do you know if they've put the drinks out? If I'm going to be doing so much talking, I need to wash the taste of the road from my throat."

"And maybe if you left anywhere on time, you wouldn't have to rush," Sadia mutters.

"Now, now," drawls a newcomer. "If Haitham put effort into anything except lazing around, the sky would probably fall in."

You step back, so you can take in the stranger. He's of below average height, but he's stocky. It's like someone took a taller man, and compressed him down without losing any of the muscle. His eyes are dark, and set above surprisingly generous lips for a man of his build that soften the overall impression. It needs softening. His skin is tanned under the fierce Cahzori sun, marked with blade scars, and his black hair is trimmed short. He is someone dressed in more recent clothing, at least in part; while he wears an ancient Cahzori jacket and wrap underneath, over the top he's thrown a white burnouse like those worn by the desert traders. On the fabric, he's pinned things that you realise have to be trophies; jewelry, fragments of broken weapons wrapped in frames… and yes, what can only be human teeth.

"Begone, Hilmi," Haitham says with an exaggerated yawn. "I'm not looking forward to any of your exaggerated swaggering."

Hilmi's eyes darken. "That's a lazy effort," he growls.

"You're not worth more," Haitham says, making lazy shooing motions with his hands.

"Some day, someone will cut that throat and you'll see how far all your smart comments get you." Hilmi glances at Sadia. "By the way, did you hear about my new find from the Zelwor temple?"

"I didn't!" Sadia says, eyes wide. "What is it?"

"This knife," Hilmi says, drawing a palm-sized blade from under his burnouse. It's black jadesteel, with a deep-blue ripple pattern on it, and it's so sleek it looks like you could toss it up into the air and lose it in the night's sky. "Pretty nice, isn't it?"

"Oh, that's gorgeous," you say, eyes wide. "You found that?" He's a treasure hunter?

"Who… ah? The stranger who little Sadia brought along because she's still not over being jilted?" the man - Hilmi - says.

"Meira, of the Sayu family, from far in the north," you say, for what feels like the millionth time.

He inclines his head to you respectfully, this swaggering, broad man. "Hilmi ad-Dib, favoured son of Demio Kazem ad-Dib," he says, his eyes lingering over your bare midriff and where the dragon-necklace nestles in your cleavage. He smiles at you and Sadia. "This is where the two most beautiful women are hiding, I see."

"Of course they're hiding," Haitham says with a yawn. "Your ugly face is driving them away."

Hilmi's jaw tenses. "Do you find me wanting, dog?" he growls.

"Old boy, everyone has found you wanting since the day you were born. Why should things change now? Now, if you'll excuse me, the charming Lady Meira and myself were about to discuss things over drinks…"

That raises a snort from the other man, as he sheathes his dagger. "You forget yourself, Kas. Your lands are barren wastelands, your men are tired and weak, and your fountains dry up. You can't be so presumptuous as to claim such a fine woman for yourself."

"Claim? I merely thought that she might wish to talk to someone who's done more with his life than riding around, sacking places for his jumped-up warlord-father - a self-proclaimed Demio with no more claim than a blood-drinking savage from the wastes." Haitham smiles at you. "I'm so awful to be presumptuous like that, my lady. Of course, if you want to talk to this boring, boring man whose mother was a blood-drinker, I will of course step aside. A gentle creature such as yourself should be praised for showing pity to such an awful being."

The look in Hilmi's eyes is murderous. "I don't need you to offer me pity," he growls, "and I hope this lady has better taste to fall for your easy vows and casual deception! Unlike many other beautiful women!"

By now, the two of them are face to face; Hilmi red and puffing himself up, Haitham smirking in a way that draws more attention to the bags under his eyes.

Oh my.

You're familiar with two men fighting over you. It used to happen a lot when you were younger. And then after your first husband died. And then later on.

It's incredibly hot. Sometimes you even got the lords of chaos fighting over your favour. More than sometimes, actually. They loved the melodrama of fighting over a woman as much as you loved watching them.

"Now, now, boys," you purr. You shake your your hair, letting the smell of mountain flowers and pine waft around you. "Who wants to see you fight? Please, calm down." But your tone is saying things that your words claim to oppose. You're not even faking the faint blush that comes to your cheeks at the thought of these two handsome young men coming to blows over you.

"I am quite good enough for any challenge this desert rat could throw out," Haitham says.

"Desert rat? Are you sure you want to say such things, you yawning fop?!"

But before things can escalate, a gong sounds through the room.

"Dinner is served," calls out one of the servants.

The dining hall of the Kinzira jansi is a grand arched structure that clearly was never originally intended for that purpose. Rows of marble-white slabs of unknown purpose extrude from hang down from the roof. There's something heavy that looks like it might have once been some kind of Shogunate projection array dangling down from the ceiling at one end of the hall, but now it only serves as a hanging place for oil lamps.

The exterior light only comes in from one end of the hall, at a grand balcony that looks over the foetid Little Nam. The great window was shattered once, and it has been patched up with crystals from Old Cahzor. The sparkles play over the roof of the room, gleaming and glistening from years of accumulated oil.

In the centre of the room is the long table, covered in plush and stained red silks. It hasn't been set, save for the seats at the very head. Instead, the placements are on smaller tables arranged around it. The cutlery, you can already see, is fine; much finer than the cloths or the wall-hangings or even the plates. The knives are freshly sharpened, and gleam in the refracted light.

Boulos ak-Kinzara is the patriarch of the family, and he's already seated at the head of the table. Or, rather, you notice, his seat has been moved to the head of the table. He didn't walk here in this contraption carried by four slaves, and you doubt he can walk. He's so grotesquely fat that the skin around his neck is splitting into open wounds. Boulos is as bald as an egg It is likely a miracle he's lived this long, and from the wheezing you're not sure he's going to last much longer.

Sadia has been giving you slightly judging and rather more envious looks as you made your way here. She finally says something as you go to take your seats. "Really?" she whispers. "You get men fighting over you that easily?"

"I think they were more looking to fight each other and I was an excuse," you shamelessly lie.

"I mean, that's true. They should just resolve their issues in the bedroom, and at least the rest of us wouldn't have to listen to them." Sadia shakes her head. "But… I mean, I've seen how men look at you at the casino and at the fighting pits, but…"

"I can't help it." You hang your head in false melancholy. "It's a curse."

She snorts, and immediately raises her hand to her mouth to cover the undignified sound. "Well! Please try to avoid starting any more fights until we've finished dinner. I don't want to have to troupe all the way out to the duelling courts."

Cahzor has a well-developed duelling culture? You like the sound of that. Well, it makes sense - especially considering their fondness for gladiatorial games. "Why aren't we eating at the table?" you wonder, to change the topic.

"Oh, the Kinzara have vowed not to dine with company at their grand table until all Cahzor is reunited once more." Sadia shakes her head. "And so," she spreads her hands. "Well, this."

"I see," you say. You're shown over to your table by the house servants, settling yourself down.

"Friends!" Sadia says to the already seated people at your table. "May I introduce a stranger from far off-lands - Meira of the Sayu family!"

There is room for six, but only three are seated here. There's an elderly, doddering man who seems half asleep - "Abu ak-Kas," Sadia introduces him as when he doesn't respond - and then the other two have similar dark blue eyes and deep blue hair. The younger looks like she's barely in her teens - a girl making her first steps into high society, wearing a dress that's meant for someone a year or two older than what you guess her age to be. You smile fondly at the sight of the ambition and precociousness of youth - the poor girl clearly wants to be taken as an adult, but she doesn't quite have the figure to pull it off yet. Her makeup is too thick, to cover acne.

She meets your eyes - ah, the little girl is jealous! How cute. You take a deep breath, and smile at her. "And who are you?" you ask, an older woman wanting the name of a child.

"Inaan as-Sawahir," she says, the corners of her mouth twitching. Oh, she's so easy to read; she wants to impress you, but she also wishes you weren't here. And the looks she's giving at Sadia are no fonder.

"Ah." You turn to the older one - perhaps in his mid-twenties - and incline your head respectfully. "And you would be Zia."

He looks up. Even seated, you can see he's a short man - perhaps even smaller than Sadia - and more than that, he's pretty. His sideburns must have been plucked individually, his eyebrows have been shaped perfectly to draw attention to his eyes, and he's the most clean-shaven man in the room. His dark blue hair has been braided with gold thread, and his high-collared rose pink under-robe revealed under his black bisht draws attention to his long, thin neck. Long, musician's fingers gleam with rings - you notice that there are moonstones, tiger's eyes, and other precious gems with occult power among them.

"Sadia is quite the gossip," he says, in a pleasant mid-pitched voice. "What else has she told you?"

"Well," you say, crossing your legs under the table, "she didn't tell me that you were possibly the most gorgeous man in the room."

He blushes, though his makeup hides it well. "I'm sure you say that to all the men."

"Only if I have reason." You raise one finger. "And it's not so outrageous a lie that no one would believe it."

Zia chuckles at that - again, a pleasant, soft sound that's almost a giggle. "Well, Sadia, you've done well. This time, you've found an actual wit - and one who's very easy on the eye. Better her than making me sit with Haitham again."

Her smile is more of a wince. "Please, Zia, can't you allow that sometimes a girl makes mistakes?"

"You are over him?" Zia asks, leaning forward.

"I couldn't be more over him if I stood in the Demio's fortress and he was all the way down at 'Zor-Base-Station."

"That's good to hear." Ah, these two are friends, you think - in more than the way that Sadia presents to nearly everyone before she gossips about them behind their back.

"And look at you, Inaan!" Sadia says quickly, changing the topic. "You're looking so grown-up!"

The little girl laughs at that. "Oh, thank you, thank you, it's just something I threw on."

Aww. She's so new at it that she doesn't have the flow down pat. So cute! She's clearly been practicing it in front of a mirror time and time again!

The first course is a spiced lentil soup - entirely drinkable, but a little salty for your taste. It's served with fried minced meat with crushed wheat, stuffed with mutton, onions and pine kernels. Now that's something you enjoy, though you wonder where they get the meat from.

"So how was your journey from the North?" Zia asks. "I've heard the northern approaches are getting more and more dangerous year on year."

You shake your head. "You heard right. I was travelling originally on a sandship when we were attacked by deyha bandits."

Sadia makes a disgusted noise. "Deyha? Savages. You didn't mention that before, Meira!"

"Well, it didn't come up." You then recount a tale of your escape from the deyha which only resembles what actually happened very, very distantly. There's a lot more heroic escape from the sandship, stealing horses from the deyha who attacked you, and then encountering a different band of deyha and talking them into travelling with a dragon child rather than attacking her.

"Goodness!" Inaan says, eyes wide.

"Mmm." Zia shakes his head. "They're savages, true, but the deyha states of the mountain seem to be growing and growing in power."

"Deyha states?" Amigere had mentioned something like that.

"Oh yes, from what's rumoured, they live up on higher, cooler plateaus in the Fire Mountains - in fertile mountain valleys. The war bands they send out are only part of their culture - my personal theory is that they're both a source of slaves and a means of population control. All the mountain deyha outsiders see seem to mostly be young women. Childless young women." He smiles, eyes alight. "They have the anatomy of the spotted hyena whose beast-blood they share, you know. It's trivial to know if one has carried a child to term."

Sadia pulls a face. "Zia! We're at the dinner table!"

"Very well. By contrast, look at the bandit deyha down by 'Zor-Grand-'Zar. They're settled. Last time I went down there to make certain purchases, I saw babies and mothers - things we've never seen in the ones from the mountains. It's funny to think they're coming home, in a sense. The history suggests the deyha have long served Cahzor."

"Wait!" Sadia's eyes are wide. "Why were you in Zorgrandzar? What were you buying there?"

He smiles back at her. "Didn't you say we were at the dinner table?"

"Zia! Zia! Zia! You have to tell me!"

Inaan sniffs. "You're acting like a child, Sadia."

That spurs amused chuckles at the precocious display, and the talk moves onto other subjects.

The courses continue, and they are lavish in the extreme. They only pose more questions as to where all this meat and water-hungry crops are coming from in this dying, dry landscape. There's succulent pieces of chicken, cooked with coating of eggs to keep the flavor encased. There's whole legs of lamb marinated in spices, cooked in their mother's milk and topped with roast gravy. There's button mushrooms, green peas and spring onions, curried and sprinkled with pickled ginger. There's something that you're fairly sure is cottage cheese chunks cooked in gravy made from onions, yogurt, turmeric and saffron, which are flavours which you've never thought you'd encounter together, but you actually enjoy.

"They're feeding us like they're fattening us for the slaughter," Sadia says, wiping her mouth. She leans back with a groan. "Well, you know the rumours…"

"You have Kinzara kin," Zia says archly. He's only picked at his food. "Doesn't it show?"

"Oh! You are such a bitch sometimes, Zia!"

"I only tell the truth." He smiles at you. "You don't seem worried about your waistline."

You gesture towards yourself. "I've eaten well for decades. A meal like this does nothing to my waistline." You smirk. "What it does to the rest of my physique… well, you are welcome to look at the results."

"Yes." He dabs at his mouth, sweating faintly. "Yes, I can see that." You like to think that's your impact on him. Actually it's not, because he's been sweating like that since he made the mistake of taking a mouthful of the spiced lamb. It was scorchingly fiery, and that was even with the creamy sauce. But you like to think you're helping. "A little more wine, I think."

You take his glass, and pour him another generous helping. There's something just at the edge of perception, though, and as the noise of eating dies down it's becoming easier to hear. Or it's getting louder. It's a… a howling, moaning sound, far in the distance.

"What's that sound?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" Sadia asks, clearly tipsy.

"Ah, the wind outside?" Inaan checks. She's still eating. In fact, she started again as… ha ha ha, as soon as you made reference to where your meals go. Well, she has a chance, still. The Sawahir family clearly has stronger dragon-blood than most if the two of them have hair the colour of the ocean's depths.

"The howling," you say.

"That would be the wind," Zia says. His brows furrow. "It sounds like a sandstorm. And a fierce one. But I didn't think one was predicted." He looks at you. "Sometimes they sweep in off the Burning Sands, you know?"

"I didn't know. How bad will it be?"

"Oh, if it's a small one, it'll probably spend its energy far down the valley. I wouldn't worry."

You twist in your seat, looking behind you. Your head spins slightly, from the wine. From where you're seated, there does look to be a layer of fog hanging down in what you can see of the valley. And even as you watch, it progresses further and further, and the spires and buildings are lost. "Well, it looks like it's moving in now."

There's something about the air, you realise, now your mouth is empty. Something greasy-tasting.

"Wait, you can see it?" Zia asks. He rises - goodness, yes, he really is short - and joins you on your side of the table, resting those long hands on your shoulders. "Yes. That's a sandstorm. And not a small one. Come with me to the window."

You rise, swaying slightly, and… ah, yes, he's helping support you. What a nice young man. "Stay here," he tells the others. "She might as well see the sandstorm coming in, even if the rest of us have seen it before."

"'S fine by me!" Sadia says cheerfully.

He leads you by the arm to the great window, and then out through a side door onto the balcony. After passing through the double layer of doors, the taste on the air is much stronger. It's not just the Little Nam. It's a taste you know very well.

"... Zacrah protect us," Zia breathes, shaking his head. He might not be able to taste it, but he can see the many-coloured stains in the fog-like clouds of sand sweeping up towards the city.

Lightning flashes outside, off in the distance. It leaves the sand-clouds around it glowing in greens and pinks.

"A wyld sandstorm," you exhale. "I've never seen one of those before." You've seen similar things in snow, but something like this… oh, does it mean the wind is picking up sand from a wyldpool somewhere out in the desert? Some place where handsome chaos princes might dwell?

"Lucky you," Zia says. "You might want to look away. They take some people strangely. Lila's mercy, there's going to be lunatics raving in the streets back home, and that's if it doesn't wake up worse things."

You're barely listening. Oh, the flashes of lightning are so beautiful, but more than that, it's the taste of chaos in the air. With your sixth sense, you can see the unreal blossoms of the wyld which resemble no mundane plant, phosphorescent and iridescent, entire forests of them growing up the slopes ahead of the storm. That scent, that taste, that sticky feeling in the air; it brings back wonderful memories. During a wyldstorm, there is so much power for the taking. And when one of your darling gentlemen was sharing your company, such storms made them very frisky.

"Do you think it'll last?" you ask him.

"Something of that size? It'll hit us within an hour. Down in our lands, we see many more sandstorms than the people up here in Zor-'pon-dam." Zia sucks in a breath. "This is bad. We'll be trapped here until tomorrow at the earliest. Maybe longer. A wyldstorm like this could last for a week."

"Really?" You pull a face. You had plans for tonight. Plans involving a sexy birdman and his long tongue.

He chuckles darkly. "Going outside in even a normal heavy sandstorm is a good way to get blown off the dam. And lose several layers of skin if you avoid that fate. When chaos touches one of those storms, anything can happen. Look on the plus side. At least we're somewhere we can be well fed while we wait."

The flashes of lightning are growing brighter and the thunder more frequent, and others are stirring inside the hall. Zia leads you back inside, and you can hear the disquiet among the guests.

Near the head of the table, Kareena ak-Kinzira taps her spoon into her ancient crystal tea cup until the chimes bring some measure of silence. "Everyone… everyone… please, quieten down. Now, obviously, with the weather like this, our jansi offers full and generous hospitality to our guests. We would not be so barbaric as to send you out into a wyldstorm. Until it clears, please, we will avail you with our bounty. And we will have our slaves close the shutters, fear not!"

She pauses for applause and cheers. If there's anyone else like you who's somewhat irked and had plans for tonight, they're keeping it hidden.

"Now, please, eat up, and drink well! Think not of the monsters outside - you are safe here! The servants have been tasked to pray for our protection and we have offered generous libations to the gods of our jansi!" She clasps her hands together. "And should you feel uneasy in the dining hall, we have decided we will serve the desserts in the Cadraca Hall, along with a generous helping of wines and other spirits! I myself am particularly looking forward to some of the fine northern fortified ciders we have procured for this party!"

This raises only more cheers.

"Oh, Great Auntie," Sadia says, her lips curling up in amusement. "She'll be legless before the next bell, I can tell you that." She smiles at you and Zia. "I think we should get there before all these other thirsty hounds get started on the drinks."

"Perhaps wise," Zia agrees. "Though looking at the state of you two, I might need to support both of you on the way there."

"Would you be so kind?" you ask girlishly. "I'm sure all the other ladies and gentlemen will hate to see the most handsome man escorting the two most beautiful ladies, but we all have to make sacrifices."

You're not quite as drunk as you're acting. You're… definitely tipsy, but not drunk - and with the blood of the Wood Dragon, you can sober up if you really have to. But sobriety is overrated when inebriation can get you a pretty man holding your arm.

Plus, if you get Zia away from his little sister, you can get him talking about some of the other things you're more interested in. Or if you're going to be trapped here overnight… well, that opens up possibilities. Fun ones.

You're awfully glad you came to this party, really.

Article:

What do you ask Zia to expand on over drinks and dessert?
[ ] "The sandstorms… you said they wake up 'worse things'. Like what?"
[ ] "So. The Kas and the Dib. What's going on there?"
[ ] "You said the deyha have a long history in Cahzor? What do you mean by that?"
[ ] "So, a little bird told me you wrote poetry. Of, perhaps, an erotic nature?"

EarthScorpion · Oct 17, 2019

XVII. Drinks

There are iced desserts, and thick creamy brews sweetened with honey of wild bees and puddings made from dark thick syrup and long-stewed grains. The wine flows freely and there is tobacco and hash and poppy, making the air thick and slow and languorous. Leading off from the great hall of green-veined marble where golden statues of long-dead foremothers stand, there are smaller rooms plushly carpeted and with modesty screens between the divans that are very nearly beds.

"So." You pause while you take another mouthful of cinnamon-sweetened chilled fruit, swallowing down the blueberries with delight. There are several empty glasses of… well, nothing. Because they're empty. But they used to be full of sickly sweet and very strong cordial, before you drank them all. You've been having fun. Fun like you haven't really had in years, when people stopped inviting you to parties because of the rumours. It's so unfair! Some of those rumours weren't even true! "Zia. Zia Zia Zia…"

Zia sprawls out on the seat, cradling his drink in both hands. "You're drunk," he tells you, a quirk to his painted lips.

"Mildly tipsy at most!" you declare with the manner of a queen.

"You are drunk, and you are a cheerful drunk."

"Perhaps!" You jab your long-handled silver spoon at him imperiously. "But better to be a cheerful drunk than an angry one! Or a sad one! They're awfully boring!"

"That's not wrong."

"Of course it's not wrong; I said it!"

"Well, you are a welcome change to this city." He looks at you so mournfully you want to kiss the sadness away, and only don't because your legs aren't entirely sure where they are right now. Oh wait, they're sprawled out on your divan. "Cahzor is a city of sad drunks. We sit back in our parties and weep over ancient tragedies."

"You're not drinking too much," you point out with genius insight. Though actually, maybe you haven't been paying too much attention, because you're sure he's refilled his cup at least twice.

"I don't like to get drunk at these things - especially among some of the fellows here." He chuckles. "And while I am a very weepy drunk, but even then, it would be too easy to insult one of them and wind up with them drawing on you."

You tilt your head. "That's a problem?"

"Yes." He smiles at you, after taking another sip. "I am an indifferent swordsman, at best. And I think I'm already tipsy, so I'll be worse."

"Well," you tell him seriously, "I'm not indifferent, even if I'm tipsy. I will get stabby. I can! Not as good as I used to be, but that's because…" you blink owlishly, and remember not to blurt things out, "... 'm tipsy." Oh, wow, you probably need to stop talking for a bit. Those cordials are going to your head. It's not your fault! They didn't taste as strong as they must have been! "Zia! Zia Zia Zia…"

"You said that bit already," he says.

"So… outside. The storm." You pause for more fruit. He probably doesn't know how much alcohol you can tolerate. And in your experience, it is best to be thought to be a little drunker than you actually are. "How often does this happen?"

"A wyldstorm this bad?" He takes a small sip from his own drink. "Maybe once a year, if that. It could get worse."

"That's awful luck."

"Yes, it is." He considers the engraving on the side of his cup and takes another sip. "And quite strange. Normally, the weather-witches see it coming."

You roll your eyes. "They're only right about half the time."

"Perhaps where you come from. We have better weather-witches."

He's not being very helpful! Your mouth tastes of… fruit. Fruit and alcohol. But under that, there's the tang of chaos. So alluring. So rich; so full of potential. "It's just… the sandstorms. You said they wake up 'worse things'. Like what?"

Zia doesn't meet your eyes. "You don't know much about Cahzor, do you?"

"No, not at all!" you admit cheerfully. "I never meant to stay here for a long while, you know. It's just it was too damn hot to be worth travelling down to Gem until after Calibration at the earliest." You fumble for the cheroot you picked up, and then realise you left your igniter at home. " Do you mind?"

He rises gracefully, and steps in, leaning over you. He smells of sandalwood perfumes. You inhale, as he produces a flintstriker and lights your cheroot, then leans in with his own pipe. His pipe is painted clay; shaped like two figures embracing face-to-face, holding the tobacco where their heads fuse into one. He lights it from your cheroot, close enough to kiss.

"Ahh," he says, sitting down beside you on your divan, crossing his legs. He inhales from his pipe, and lets out a blue ring of smoke. "Now, do you want to learn?"

That is one of the many things you want to do, yes, you indicate with a nod.

"Well, Cahzor was once mighty. It once ruled these mountains. Not in some long lost past, either. Might I ask how old you are?"

"You certainly may not!" you say, slapping his hand away playfully. "That's awfully rude!"

"Well, we have always been a wise and cunning folk - even now, as we are brought low." He brings his hands together in a firm clap. "You see, Cahzor was not where our jansi have their origins. Before they were betrayed, they came from the beautiful lands to the East!"

"The… desert?"

"Do you know why it became known as the Burning Sands?" Zia asks, his eyes aflame. "It's not because of the heat - not originally. It's because the ancient hag who sits upon her blood-stained throne in the centre of the world destroyed the rivers and fields and good lands. She called down fire from the sky and cracked the earth, and drew out the water - and the Anam was no more. Cahzor was the westernmost city of the lands of the Jansi in the times of the Shogunate, and when she was done, it was all that remained. There are ruins out there in the wastelands. I have seen some of them; caves that were once basements, mesas that were once cities. My mother took me to them, so I knew what had once been ours."

He swirls his drink, and takes a heavy gulp. "That crone used the power of the ancients - and the excuse of plague and war - to launch her coup. Oh, the false histories of her and her insatiable brood claim she saved the world, but we remember the truth here in Cahzor. We were kin to the Shogun - so our base of power, the rich and lush lands of the south had to be destroyed. And she has always hated us."

Is he crying? Is he actually crying? Well, not quite, but he's getting distinctly teary-eyed as he finishes off his current cup and pours himself more from the jug. He wasn't wrong when he said he was a weepy drunk.

"We stood so long against her conniving and her cruel ways. It was only in the late sixth century that the city truly fell. I believe the great battle where the flower of the jansi were cut down by treachery by the Elemi and the forces of Gem was in 597. And that war, the War of Gem's Greed, was what left this city a dry and melancholy place."

Realm year five-nighty-seven. No wonder you heard stories of Cahzor when you were a little girl. That was only a bit before you were born, in six-twenty. "So…" you try to do hard maths, drunkenly, "that's…"

"One hundred and thirty six years ago."

"I knew that!" you say, valiantly working it out anyway despite the fact he cheated and gave you the answer.

"Now, Cahzor had been declining for several centuries beforehand," he admits. "But the difference between how things had been and what the savages of Gem did to the city is night and day. It had been a gentle decline, one noble and graceful, matching how the souls of men and women are not what they once were. The old city might have been emptying and the suburbs might have been mostly given over to the gods, but it was still where good silver passed though and where weary travellers came to rest their heads. The workshops of old still made mighty things, and the great plantations upriver grew fine things like cotton and almonds and other crops that brought in wealth."

"Mmm," you say staring into his intense eyes.

He does go on for quite some length, describing the many wonders and indulgences of Old Cahzor. You sort of zone out mid-way through, because it's not really answering your question about the wyldstorm, and there's only so much you can bear to hear about things like that which you can't have.

Instead, you think of Zia, and the way he talks about such things. Oh, you can hear his desire for how things used to be. Or, at least, his desire for his fantasies about Old Cahzor. You're old enough that no mortal remembers when you were born, and so that gives you a certain insight into how old men and women lie to their children about how things were when they were young. You doubt Cahzor was ever as great as he claims, because if it was true, its inhabitants would have lived like Dynasts.

But you can see how you can get your hooks into Zia. He longs for the past, when he would have been born as a dragon child; having seen him and his sister, you'd bet their family has one in its immediate ancestry. He'll do anything out of this all-consuming desire for yesteryears. He wants to have been one of them.

"... and I've read my ancestor's journals! She could reshape her flesh, walking as a man or a snake or an eagle if she wished it! Such power! And she built her own tower in the School of Clouds and…"

"Mmm…" You blink owlishly. "Wait. Cahzor was a home of sorcery?" you ask, the words punching through the pleasantly buzzing fog in your mind.

"Without compare," Zia assures you. "The ancient arts found a home here - and the power of the jansi were measured in the sorcerers sworn to their citadels. They called rains from the far West across the mountains, they tamed demons and elemental beasts to form our armies, and they worked great and terrible magics. And that meant that when the emissaries of the Scarlet Hag came calling, they were sent fleeing back to where they came from."

Ah yes, he's talking dirty to you. Zia's saying just what you need to get you in the mood. This is wonderful. Glorious. It's one thing for a man to tell you he loves you, but it's quite another to say that the ancient city that fills an entire valley was home to schools of sorcery and that he has read the works of his ancestor. Oh, if this is true, what does this mean for the contents of your jadescroll? Could this be markers of ancient sorcerous lairs?

Even if what he's saying is mostly exaggeration, there's surely enough truth in it to make Cahzor worth your time.

You lean up against his shoulder. "It must have been wonderful," you purr. "Tell me more."

There's a light in his eyes, but he's not looking at you. He's looking through you, as if he could see the past. "Take this fortress," he says, gesturing around. "This was once one of the fortifications that controlled the trading routes south. The Cerulean Lotus is a pale mockery of what it once was! Zorgrandzar was a place where merchants from across the South came, where the sorcerers bought pearls and white jade from the north and all the bounties of the lands where chaos washes against the shores of the world.

"But," Zia's face fell, "we lost many of our best up North, fighting with our ancient allies in the Hook against the slaves of that blood-soaked scarlet hag. They were conquered, and while we were weak, Gem - and the Elemi outcasts - turned on us. This is how the spiteful gods of the centre curse those who stand up against the Scarlet Hag. We were strong and our city was beyond compare, so the proud gods bought us low through malice and treachery. For they do not like rivals."

You shake your head, patting his hand. His skin is very soft - softer than yours. He's never built up the callouses from training in the fighting arts. And you know better than this boy telling stories how the gods can be. "How awful," you tell him. There was something… oh yes. "But… sorry, sorry, I think we're distracted. You were talking about the wyldstorm outside, I think?"

"No, we are not distracted," he says softly. "You must understand how the spite of others has bought Cahzor low. And how wicked they were, that even our greatest accomplishments were turned against us. The sorcerers of Cahzor were once a blessing, but are now a curse. So many of them died, Meira. Slain by the Realm, or in the treachery of Gem, or in the infighting between the jansi as the land turned sour. Their ancient workshops; their cunning flesh-pits; their great geomantic workings in the old city: all of these remained.

"But Impacci's Storm came, sweeping up from the south. And without their masters, the works of the sorcerers ran wild."

"Impacci's Storm?"

"Every few decades, there is a great wyldstorm across the Fire Mountains - and sometimes it reaches this far north. As it did, in the 620s. I believe there is some story of the savages of the South which claims some lord called Impacci created it as his death curse, but those sorts will say anything." Zia sighs, emptying his drink. "And this is why we are a melancholy people - because Old Cahzor is lousy with the works of our forefathers, turned against us by the curses and spite of Gem and of the Scarlet Hag. Automata gone mad through the touch of chaos, the restless dead, goblin-men and chaos-beasts and twisted elementals; all of them dwell down in the city. Hiding in nooks and crannies. Waiting, hateful and wicked. And when a wyldstorm comes, they roam more freely. That we live in such cursed times is a sign of our misfortune. Oh, unhappy, melancholy fate." His shoulders shake in a small sob.

You gasp. And only hope that he thinks you're horrified. You're not horrified. You're in love.

How many chaos-twisted monsters must there be in Cahzor, for you to trap and trick into your service? How many forgotten workshops must there be here, guarded by ancient sentinels driven mad? How much power must there be in such a storm, free for the taking?

Trying not to grin like a fool, you drape yourself over Zia. "Oh, how tragic," you coo. "Do you think we'll be in danger?"

"This far out of the valley? Probably not," he says, staring down into his empty cup.

"Then let us not think of such miserable things." An idea strikes you. "Now, I heard something about you, and I'd like a demonstration. Someone said you're something of a poe-"

He rises, shaking you off. "Forgive me, Meira," he says. "I am ill at ease, after dwelling on the past." He heaves a great and melodramatic sigh. "I am melancholy with nostalgia."

"Aww, poor darling," you say, reaching out to stroke his back. "Here, let me comf-"

"I must leave you, I am afraid. We have been talking too long, and I must see to my sister. It is not good to leave her alone here so long." He bends over you, pressing his lips to yours. He's very soft, and tastes of wine and cherries. But before you can wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for cheering up, he's gone. He's walking away.

He's walking away. How dare he! With that incredibly fetching melancholic air you were going to kiss away! He can't just leave! You were trying to seduce him! Not trying your hardest, but still! He's clearly interested! No one who isn't interested kisses you in that way! How dare he do that!

It takes all your willpower, that of a great and powerful sorceress, to not throw your shoe at his back.

Little sisters! One of your great enemies! This always happens! When they're not thwarting you directly by considering you a bad influence on their big brother - what nonsense, everyone needs influences like you in their lives or things would be boring! - they're making the men in your life think of people other than you! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not faaaaaaair!

You would just like to make it clear that you did not throw a tiny temper tantrum. And likewise, Sei did not appear from nowhere and nip you with his surprisingly sharp teeth. And any claims to the otherwise made by a treacherous and malicious monster born of chaos are obviously lies.

"Are you done?" Sei asks.

You throw a cushion at him, which he dodges because he is an asshole and also you might be a bit tipsy. Rubbing your hand, you cuddle up to your drink and fume. It turns out to be empty.

"How fascinating," Sei purrs. "That makes a lot of sense. The abandoned city below is full of monsters and other sorcerous experiments. I wonder how they taste? No doubt many of them will be delicious. Now, my lady, what will you do?" His eyes gleam.

You pay him no attention. "Right! That's it!" you growl.

"Excuse me, my lady?"

"Shut up, Sei. I have much more pressing concerns! I," you hand goes to your brow, "have been jilted!"

"No you haven't."

"I have been cruelly and viciously jilted," you insist. You don't expect Sei to understand. He'll just come up with silly technicalities.

"Were you engaged to that individual?" he says, living down to your expectations.

"Love cares not for such details. I tell you, Sei, I have been jilted! My heart is broken!"

"Oh. Your heart is broken," he yawns. "It must be a Mercuryday."

Ha! You have him there! It's actually a Saturnday! He doesn't know what he's talking about, so you can safely ignore him! And get more important things done! After being treated so shamelessly by someone who has taken advantage of your good nature and generous personality, you're going to get out there, and find other handsome men! And sparkle! And shine! And other things starting with s-!

Now. Time to aggressively mingle. Which you do.

You're chatting to a distinguished-looking older man whose much younger wife is looking at you with loathing when Sadia finds you.

"Now where have you been?" she asks, grabbing you by the arm. "You're missing the dance!"

"Zia is a great disappointment!" you fume as you trail after her.

"Oh?"

"He just leads a girl on, then leaves with only a kiss!"

Sadia is quiet for a little too long. "Ah," she says eventually. "He gets… nervous. I think he might want to get to know you better. How deeply did he kiss you?"

"Very!" you insist.

"Yes, I think he's interested, but… oh, Ziriyama, did you get him talking about history?"

"... yes? Why?"

She rolls her eyes. "He's probably gone off to cry somewhere that he wasn't born two hundred years ago."

"That's a thing he does?"

"Meira, I've known him since we were knee high. I am entirely used to his foibles. Trust me when I tell you he's happiest when his mind is centuries ago. And Zia gets… shy about bedroom things."

"Little boys," you mutter as you're lead through into a towering hall of red marble where scantily clad entertainers of both sexes - both pure human and beastman alike - dance up on raised basalt platforms. The music is in a minor key and loud; the pipes and the drums and the strings raised to drown out the howling storm outside. There are jansi aristocrats down in the centre of the room, lit by the light of giant oil lamps, reflected off great brass mirrors; each one masked. Some of them have already discarded many of their dining clothes, and are barely more dressed than the slaves.

"I took the liberty of entering your name into a dance card," Sadia tells you shamelessly. "I knew I'd find you eventually, and several men are already very interested in you. And you'll want a mask."

You look over the table, noting they're grouped into three broad clusters. "Any meaning to the masks?" you ask.

"It's funny you should ask," Sasia says. "Are you just looking to dance, to be courted, or get laid?"

Slowly you smile. You know just what you want to do. And you recognise some of the names of the men have signed on your dance cards. You probably don't want to dance too long, because your legs are already aching and you don't want to open your scars. But you're going to have some fun.

Article:

Whose dance cards do you accept? (Select two)
[ ] Languid, urban Haitham ak-Kas
[ ] Hot-blooded, petulant Hilmi ad-Dib
[ ] Arrogant, towering Fatin ak-Kebez
[ ] Mysterious, scarred Munir al-Alliya

Which mask do you wear?
[ ] The blank mask - You're not in the mood after Zia's selfish display. You just want to forget yourself in dance, and then go back to your room and eat pudding.
[ ] The cat mask - You want eligible men to know that you're single and open to being courted. And might be up for eating pudding with one of them.
[ ] The demon mask - You want interested men to know that you're just looking to get laid, with no plans for a long-term relationship. There may or may not be pudding in your room.

EarthScorpion · Oct 27, 2019

XVIII. Dancing

Your eyebrows rise as you see the mask choices. The feminine, lilac-skinned mask with very thinly woven black cotton stretched across the eye sockets is a representation of breed of demon you have encountered. Demon-summoning has never been your thing - so many demons are frightfully ugly and just plain strange - but as a sorceress it behoves you to keep in contact with fellow travellers in the arcane arts. And get invited to their parties, of course.

Anyway, the point is that this mask is very life-like. You suspect the artist had very good reference material to work with, and since you haven't seen any dragon children among the Kinzara, you think they might have old tomes of demonology passed down from some of those sorcerers that Zia had mentioned.

Trying on a few masks, you find one that fits you. The thin cotton covering the eyes is quite easy to see through, and you admire its sit in a mirror. It's shaped to slim the face, with high cheekbones, and when you adjust your black hair, it frames the lilac nicely.

Sadia grins at you, as she grabs an identical mask. "Good choice. If we're going to be stuck in this place, we might as well have some fun, right? There are things to do other than sitting around eating. Dance until the night is old, then retreat to bed with someone handsome."

"I don't plan to dance that long," you say. "My feet are already hurting from standing up so long." Not your feet, so much as your leg. But you're not mentioning that to her.

"It's good to rest on your back," she says impishly. Sadia looks out over the dance hall. "See anyone you like?"

"I plan to investigate," you say.

"Honestly," she says, lowering her voice, "I'd recommend Haitham. He's an unbearable ass if you're courting him, but," she winks at you, "he has a very bearable ass if you're just looking for fun."

"You're giving me permission to pursue your former fiance?" you ask, amused.

"Well, I could see him eyeing you up - and honestly, my dear, if he's distracted by you, he won't decide to try to woo me for old time's sake. I'm quite thoroughly over him," that lilac mask stares at you, "and it'd honestly ruin my evening if he started making passes when I'm looking for someone new."

"I do appreciate the thought - I really do," you say, "but I think we'll just see how this goes."

Sadia pats you on the hand. "Well, if you can't find someone, I might set you up with him," she says. You can see the sides of her face creasing up; she's smiling behind the mask. "I feel so awful for dragging you to this party and getting you stuck here."

"I'm not sure that's so philanthropic, darling," you point out.

"Well, it's a teeny tiny bit philanthropic," she retorts. "Just accept the gift."

The first of the dance cards you took is for the towering Fatin ak-Kebez. And while there is meant to be some kind of sport in finding one's partner when everyone is masked, to see where he is, you simply have to look across the hall. If it ever rained in this parched city, he would be the first to know when it happens.

He's certainly a sight to admire. He's removed his long jacket, to reveal a tightly fitted shirt underneath. He hasn't removed his elbow-length silk gloves, though. His mask is a white human face, its lips locked in a neutral expression that nevertheless looks disapproving.

"Well, aren't you the handsome one?" you say by means of introduction, your head tilted back to take him all in. "I am honoured to be your dance partner, really." You step in, left hand snaking down to wrap around his waist, and he takes a small step back.

"Please," he rumbles. "Not so close."

You pause at that, frowning behind your mask as you look around. Oh, is it an insult to his masculinity? It seems to only be women who have partners hold them like that. Sigh. Little boys can be so boring sometimes. And you have heard that some southern men have awfully eccentric ideas about how men are meant to take the lead.

"I have some gloves for you," he adds.

You don't understand at first. And then you look up to that masked face and the yellowing silk gloves he offers, and realise he wants you to wear gloves before he'll dance with you. There's a bit of you which wants to call things off here and now. Why would a man like this even dance with you if he doesn't even want to touch you? You're glad you're wearing this mask, because you're finding it hard to cover your emotions.

No. No, you're not in a position where you can afford to make enemies of another dragon-child. "Of course," you say, with a false smile he can't even see. You put the gloves on, looking around. "Now, what is the custom here?"

"I am not sure," he says. "I seldom dance."

"Well, then," you say, feeling your false smile turn into something more of a rictus grin, "let us just copy the others." You lead him onto the floor, and let the wailing flutes and beating drums surround you.

You dance. And it is one of the worst dances of your life. You are glad for the mask that makes it hard to see your eyes, because you are looking enviously at some of the other women on the dance floor.

They don't have a lumbering ox as a partner.

He is not a flexible man. You knew that already, of course, but you thought his inflexibility was merely in his manners and his ease in such social situations. No, he is so upright and rigid in his posture that it is like dancing with a stone pillar. There is no grace in his movements; no flow. His steps are like he's trying to plunge through the floor to the bedrock below; his arm movements are slow and never on time with the music. There are risque, spicy dance moves, yes, but you don't even get to try any of them. He's too uncomfortable with the figurative boiled cabbage of dance.

Children of Pasiap are like that sometimes, but you've never met one as bad as him.

The music dies down, and you congratulate yourself at not having had your feet trodden on. With a graceful dip, you acknowledge him - and the stiff-necked bastard doesn't even return the favour!

"Now, Fatin," you say, guiding him away from the others before the next dance because… you just can't do that. Not again. You're not sure you can dodge his feet for a second dance. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

Somehow, he manages what you really hadn't thought was possible before with him, and stiffens up further. "My mother is Nahla ak-Kebez. She is a dragon-child. She is also Yasmine's mother."

You wait patiently. But no. That's really all he says. "A man is more than his mother and father," you say. "Darling, I want to know about you."

He stares at you from behind that mask. You wonder what his expression is behind that cold visage. "You are a forward woman," he says.

"I just want to get to know you better," you say softly. "After all, I'm new in Cahzor. I am a single woman. I need friends." You pause. "Good friends," you add. You're not entirely sure if he's just dense, or… why would he offer you his dance card if he doesn't actually want to dance with you?

"Hmm," he says. He stretches his shoulders, looming over you, and you feel a twinge of regret that such a wonderful body has to have the head of such a lump attached to it.

"After all, if I know more about you, maybe we could be close friends," you add. "You're one of the few other dragon-children here."

Fatin huffs at that. "You are very forward."

"I just know what I want," you say. His tone stings, but you swallow your resentment down. "And you're handsome - and single. Why not let your guard down a little? Relax. Have some fun..."

He stoops towards you, and for a moment, you think that he's going to kiss you. But then, "Would you sit with my sister for a while?" he asks softly. "She is often lonely at home, and she wished to come to this party. It's the only reason I came to… to this stinking hall full of apostates and heretics who bury their faces into troughs of food." His voice drips with contempt. "Like pigs. When we get home, Yasmine and I will need to purify ourselves thoroughly."

You're not sure what to say there.

Fatin shudders. "At least you have not given yourself to unclean gods," he says. "So Yasmine would like to get to know you better." He pauses. "Perhaps you might even dance with her. She dances much better than me." He huffs. "Though you might have noticed that many, many things do."

No, you don't actually want to do that. What you want is to dance with handsome men, and then to get laid tonight. But… argh, this is a family that has two dragon-children in a generation. You can't risk offending him. You pat him on the hand. "As a favour to you, of course," you purr. "And then, of course, maybe we could talk more later."

He clears his throat. "I would need to… talk with my parents at the very least."

You sidle closer. "Would you really?"

"Yes." The response comes out immediately.

Oh. Oh. You feel your cheeks rise with the faintest blush of mortification. Is it that he's only interested in other men? No, you don't think it's that. When he looked at you earlier, he was looking at you both as a rival and a woman.

What a lump! What a poor example of a man! To turn down your transcendent, wonderful beauty like that is just… it's just ill-mannered! And he wants you to spend time with his sister? When you made it clear what you wanted! He's being a wretched, stinking, kindly brother, who's stepping aside to give his poor, maimed half-sister a chance to talk to a woman who doesn't have all the baggage of these closed-in social circles.

Urgh! You don't care about that! But you can't risk offending a jansi that has actual dragon-children - and clearly keeps big stupid Fatin on a tight leash if he's turning you down with 'blah blah blah talk to my parents blah blah'.

Your inner diatribe lasts quite a while, making many good and important points about how unfair the world is. You're only broken out of it by a chuckle behind your left ear that sounds like Sei. Well, he can't laugh at you! You're his master!

There are drinks at the side of the room. One of them, downed in one gulp, is enough to take the edge off your temper.

Right. Right. Your thigh is aching, so you'll get this over and done with while you take a rest. You can go speak to someone who can't talk. This is a waste of your time. But something you need to do if you want to get the Kebez jansi on side.

Yasmine ak-Kebez is seated in the corner of the room. If she's trying not to be noticed, it's not working, because very few people in this hall have pale blue skin. She has a little book in her gloved hands, bound in white leather, and she seems to be absorbed in it. Which suggests strongly that she's not as blind as Sadia seemed to think.

"Excuse me," you say. "Is this seat free? I need to rest for a little."

She looks up at you, and her cheeks plump up in a closed-mouthed smile. She shakes her head.

"Thank you," you say, sprawling out. You rub your aching thigh, massaging the scar. "Sorry, I was stabbed by bandits on my way south and my leg still aches if I stand on it too long."

It's not true, not strictly, but she shows every sign of believing you. She holds up a too-long finger, and retrieves a slate and chalk from a small satchel beside her.

"hello," she writes. Her writing is trembly; hard to read, and archaic in its lettering. "i am sorry about your leg."

"It's fine," you say, bravely. Sometimes you can even forget about it, but you've been on your feet for too long. "It's healing."

Scratch scratch scratch. "i can help."

"Excuse me?"

She reaches out, placing her hand on your thigh. Then you feel coolness seep into your aching muscles, and a twinge of pain that flares and then is gone completely. You stretch out your leg, and it doesn't ache.

"My goodness," you say. You've seen that talent from other dragon-children before, of course, but you never were particularly interested in medicine. "Oh, you are a darling. That's been bothering me for months."

Her cheeks have flushed to a darker shade of blue, and she doesn't meet your eyes. She focuses on her slate. "the scar is not gone," she writes. "i just took the pain for now."

You pat her other hand, which is still on your leg. "Darling, I didn't even expect that much." You slip your mask down, and let her see one of your best smiles.

"i learned medcine for my kin. not helping people is bad."

"You're a treasure, you know that?" You say. What a nice girl. "If there's anything I can do for you, please, don't hesitate to ask."

She swallows, and blushes even darker. "tell me what you saw on your trip," she writes. She pauses, then adds, "please."

It is a patchwork, slow conversation. There is nothing easy or spontaneous about it, when every response from her has to be chalked out. Instead, you find yourself talking more and more, telling her stories about the lands further north. It gives her time to scratch out another question or response.

But, by the Dragons, you'll chatter with someone who can give you a release from your aches and pains. So you start to recount some of the northern coastline - not enough to let her know where you actually came from, but enough to entertain her.

She likes it. She leans closer to hear, and smiles at you whenever you look at her blindfolded eyes. And at first it isn't so bad, but then it sneaks up on you. Homesickeness. Talking about lands where it snows and where the hills are green with pine. Trying to describe the scent of sea air to someone who only knows of the wretched, stinking Little Nam as their body of open water. Even mentioning what the dancers wear in the north.

Several dances pass while you talk, and your throat is sore. "But anyway, listen to me talk on and on," you say. "I'm probably boring you."

Yasmine shakes her head while she scribbles away. "no," she writes. "i like you." A pause. Then; "are you leving soon?"

"I mean, I do have another dancing card," you say, preparing to disengage. "So, while this has been pleasant, I…"

She grabs your wrist. She's scrawled an interruption. "leving cahzor"

"Not until after Calibration and things cool down, at the earliest," you say.

Yasmine isn't bothering to erase her slate. "i want to see you again," she writes.

You can read her body languages; shoulders huddled up, not meeting your eyes. She looks ill. Or nervous. Oh.

"you are pretty," she scrawls, and smiles at you awkwardly. Her deep blue lips part, giving you a glimpse of rows of sharp teeth. "dimon mask"

Oh. Oh dear. You sigh. So that's why Fatin passed you over to her. She must have asked him to do so. This isn't the first time this has happened to you, but it's always awkward. Especially with this poor, sickly creature, twisted by her genesis, with dragon blood so thick and stagnant you wonder if she hatched. But for how much dragon she has in her, she still has the urges of a woman. "Oh, sweetheart," you tell her carefully. "I'm flattered, I really am. And I'm sure that there are girls out there for you. But I only like men that way."

She flips her slate, onto a fresh surface. "wood blood from north. Sinis."

Ah. So she's been fed rumours of the Realm and House Cynis, that infamously decadent Great House that descends from Sextes Jylis just like you. The tales that would have listeners believe that every woodblood is completely controlled by their lusts, with no care for looks, sex or physique.

You're not at all like that, of course. You're only interested in pretty and-slash-or handsome men. It's totally different.

You explain some of that, trying to be gentle, and Yasmine's blush darkens. She can't meet your eyes. "you wanted fatin," she writes, handwriting clearer now she isn't desperately trying to get words down.

There has to be a tactful way to put this. Hmm. "He is quite handsome," you settle on. "And those muscles like something a sculptor would carve. I was certainly considering inviting him to my bed."

You could probably have been more tactful.

"kebez will say no."

Fortunately, you don't say anything about your opinion of families not approving of you sleeping with their sons. "That is a problem," you instead say.

She erases the last two words. "kebez will let you bed me" she changes it to.

"Yes, but darling, really," you pat her hand, "trust me when I say it - I'm not interested in women that way. Please. It's nothing about you. Except that you're a woman, obviously."

The awkward silence drags on as she busies herself with cleaning off her slate. Poor girl. That family clearly has no sorcerers who could ease her crippled flesh - or summon creatures who wouldn't care about her looks. She must be feeling just as frustrated and humiliated as you were when her brother turned you down. And here in dying Cahzor, there clearly aren't so many women who are interested in her - especially not dragon-children.

But clearly she doesn't know how good it feels to kick a pillow a few times and rant at your familiar. She just bottles things up inside.

Well. You rise. "I hope you do find someone," you tell her.

Yasmine glances at you, cheeks blue, wetness staining the corners of her blindfold. "thank you," she shows you. "it was nice to talk."

You can feel her eyes on you as you leave. You don't look back to the corner. It would just make things awkward for you.

Your second dance card is for Munir al-Alliya. He takes more finding. You almost don't recognise him. He's wearing no mask.

Ah, but no, that's not right. He is wearing a mask. He wears one over the top of the silver mask that covers his burns; one which must look like he looked before his accident. It's been painted carefully to match the colour of his revealed skin. There's even a false, immobile eye painted onto the left side of the mask, that constantly stares straight ahead no matter where his real eye looks. His left hand wears a black velvet glove, but his right arm is bare to the shoulder and covered in an intricate pattern of five-colour tattoos that stand out against his darker skin.

Up close, you can see he's older than many of the funny little boys you've been playing with. He must be in his late thirties, and while he's clearly strong and works to keep his shape, he has some of the softness that comes to any man in time. His arms are strong, but his gut is rounded. His bared skin isn't boyishly smooth anymore; it has character.

When he takes your hand, you feel the built-up callouses on his palm and fingers. Soldier or smith; he works with his hands. The precise opposite of soft, weepy Zia.

"Dear Meira," he says, and you can hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "I'm so pleased you chose me as a dance partner this evening."

"Well, you know," you say, feeling quite satisfied at your choice. "Little boys don't always know how to handle a woman who's used to all their tricks. Sometimes one must look for someone a little less callow."

"Ah ha! Yes, indeed. Callow, I am not." He pauses. "A drink?"

You consider how you're feeling. Light-headed, yes, and slightly flushed. You're feeling the drink you had when angry about Fatin. "Nothing alcoholic," you say. "It wouldn't be much fun if I fell over on the dance floor."

"Ha! Yes." He nods over to the floor as he passes you a cup. "Rosewater. And have you seen the Kinzara girl there?" You can see a woman who's nearly bulging out of her faded blue gown. "She's clearly only being held up by Aziz over there. I do hope they get her off the floor before she throws up all over it like she did at the last party they threw."

"She can't hold her drink?" you say, frowning as you realise it's hard to drink with your mask in the way.

"Well, given she dropped a cup already, no, I would say she can't." He chuckles. "Young people. So foolish sometimes. And by the way, that little spout is meant to help you drink through the mask."

"Thank you," you say, trying the drink. It's flavoured with desert roses, and very very sweet.

"I saw you with Yasmine ak-Kebez."

"Mmm. Her brother asked me to sit with her."

"I don't know why that family shows up to these things, I really don't. He's a lump who refuses to touch anyone, and she's a cripple. I've never seen her dance, and a few men have even asked her."

Well, you know why. Something rings a bell, something Fatin had said. "The boy mentioned some kind of religious difference."

"Mmm. Yes, the Kebez are very old fashioned. They mostly just worship the Five Perfect Ones. They insult the other gods by refusing to give them their dues." Munir shakes his head. "Foolishness. Maybe that is why so many of them are cripples. I've heard take they have a fortress on their lands where those too deformed or too mad to be seen in public are confined."

"Goodness me." The current dance seems to be coming to an end, and you're quite interested in getting to know this older gentleman better. There's no sign of a wife, and that suits you just fine. While married men can be an enjoyable challenge, it's more effort than you feel like right now.

The musicians start a new song - a thin, wailing piece on the horns and bagpipes. A whirling rhythm then joins in on the zithers and ghaychacks that dances in the upper registers. The great drums beat out a slow pace underneath all that.

"Well, let us dance, then," you say, looking at him from beneath your lashes.

"Of course, my lady," he says. He reaches out, wrapping his good arm around your waist and leads you onto the floor.

With Munir, you can put Fatin's awkwardness out of mind. Oh, he's by no means a dancing master - and he favours his right leg, suggesting the injuries go all the way down his left side - but he's competent. And he's strong enough that he can quite thrillingly lift you as the bagpipes cry out their warbling call.

There are more than one set of eyes on you. Yasmine is watching you - insofar as you can tell from behind her blindfold. No doubt the girl wishes she was in Munir's place. But Hilmi is on the edge of the room, eyes dark as he ignores the woman next to him - and on the other side of the room, Haitham has a drink and is watching you. He notices you looking at him, and salutes you with his cup.

You lean back, back arched, and let one leg rise as Munir leans in, twining it behind his leg. His bare arm is warm against the flesh of your back; he smells of wood smoke, the meal, and under that something slightly oily and alchemical. "I'm having a lot of fun, good sir," you purr, soft and husky.

"A pleased lady is my pleasure," he replies.

You straighten up, so you're pressed right up against him, your arm snaking around his waist. "Well, perhaps after a few more dances, we can take this to one of the private rooms," you murmur.

He sweeps you low. "Ah, I'm afraid not," he says, sounding very polite. "I'm not looking for a fling."

Your muscles tense, and you step away. "You're married?" you demand.

"Not any more. Alas, my poor Alyssa now rests in Mukhdar's garden. The birth of my twins was more than she could take."

"That's unfortunate," you say, unsure where he's going with this. But no, you have to stay polite. "How old are they?"

"They've just turned six." He holds your hand, guiding you away from the centre of attention. "And you?"

"My husband is long dead," you say. "And I have nothing to hold me to one place, or that would keep me from travelling." You force your jaw to unclench. "Why shouldn't we look for some entertainment tonight?"

He raises your hand, pressing his mask's lips to it. "I have no time for affairs with a woman I barely know," he says, "and no desire for the costs of another mistress."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't mistake me. You are, after all, a very beautiful woman," he says mellifluously. "And if you are going to be staying in Cahzor longer, well, things can change. But as it stands, you're only looking for a fling, and I have a mistress. She'll likely hear if I were to bed you."

"I didn't say…"

"You are wearing the demon mask, are you not?" he says.

Stupid Cahzori masks! "She doesn't need to know," you say, stepping in. The scent of pine and mountain flowers embraces you even as you wrap your arms around him. This shouldn't be happening! "I'm just looking for a little fun tonight."

"And that is it," he says back - and for all that he says he doesn't want to bed you, he's not letting go. "I'm simply not in the market for something casual. A dragonchild such as yourself is a treasure beyond compare - but I wouldn't have you slip through my fingers so easily in a single night. No doubt in a few weeks you'll be gone, to forget me."

"Is your ego so fragile?" you ask, low and soft. The wailing pipes seem to mock you.

He dares to chuckle. "I'd rather let you slip away and lose a night of passion than have my mistress leave and take all the gifts I've given her. My greatest apologies, Lady Sayu, but that is the truth as I see it."

You exhale, and release him, letting your dragon blood recess. "So you're wasting our time?"

"My lady," he says, his normal eye creasing into a smile, "who is wasting time? To spend the evening dancing with a beautiful lady like yourself is quite a pleasant flippantry."

He's wasting your time, you want to retort. You don't, though. "Well," you say through your pique, "then perhaps another dance? But only one or two more. I grow tired."

After two more dances - it's not fair - you retreat to the side of the room. Looking over it, you scowl behind your mask. Sadia is in one of the corners, and her current swain is getting more than a little touchy with her.

Well, she gets something out of this! She does, even if you don't. Lucky her! And it's not just here. The wine and spirits have been flowing freely and in the fire-lit heat, many people have discarded items of clothing. Around the edges of the room, several couples are engaging in petting that grows increasingly heavy.

You pout. The men of Cahzor are quite a disappointment, When they're not melodramatic weepy cute little things, they're serving as wingman for their sister or not interested in a casual fling. Honestly, you can't exactly frown on women falling for you and helping their sister is what a good brother should do - but a man with a mistress turning you down? The cheek!

This has quite ruined your evening. To be treated so callously! So shallowly! The misfortunes of life fall down on you in unending storms, and all you can do is weather them!

You're going to bed. After you find out where you're sleeping. And maybe secure a good number of those little candied fruits to eat alone in your bedroom. At least they won't turn you down!

The quarters they gave you are old and unaired. There's a musty, stale scent to the air. There is dust in here on the surfaces, away from the corners. The walls are painted an ugly liver red-brown, that seems to swallow the light from your oil lamp. Palid white vases that would once have held fresh-cut flowers stand lonely on the surfaces. The Kinzara spend their money these days on food, not those little things. As a child of Sextes Jylis, that doesn't impress you.

You pause, hand just short of the tasteless walls. What greens have you actually seen on this estate that weren't being worn by a guest? Even the crops were yellowing. It makes you uneasy. Your skin crawls. To be too far from green things doesn't feel right.

No, you're not sure you want to touch the walls. Instead, you inspect the outer wall. The shutters are bolted tightly, or at least you presume that they must be. They're hidden. Layers upon layers of fabric have been used to pad it, to muffle the sound of the wind outside.

Even despite that, you can hear the shrieking sandstorm, and taste the thick power of chaos in the air.

All around the room, there's the sign of a cursory clean. The dust is still in the corners of the room and on top of the mostly-empty bookshelf. You check down under an empty bed, and frown. The dust under there is thick, and there are several rat skeletons there, still stuck in rusted traps. Their bones have been gnawed.

"Anything edible?" Sei asks hopefully.

"Not for years," you say darkly, as you place your haul of little sweet things into a bowl and then flop onto the bed. You kick off your shoes, and punch your pillow a few times. "Argh!"

"You can always talk to me, you know," Sei says, from next to you on the bed.

You stuff a fig in your mouth, and start to recount the evening to him - and how awful the men of Cahzor are.

Sei considers it. He nods sympathetically. "I don't care," he says, with a yawn.

"You said I could talk to you, you terrible beast!" you snap.

"I didn't say I'd listen. Or care. But if you want my opinion, that was entirely self-inflicted. There were horny young men out there, but you chose to chase after the inbred who was obsessed with cleanliness and the man you knew nothing about."

"There's nothing wrong about wanting to be clean!"

"You used to carry a little bottle of alcohol around. Not because you're a lush - though you are - but just to clean your hands."

"You're just saying that because you're horrible," you sulk.

"Maybe." He leaps down to the floor. "I think I'll go look for some food. I'm sure when people start falling asleep, they'll dream interesting dreams."

Such an awful, self-interested, unsympathetic, egocentric, petty monster who only cares about his own pleasure! "Don't get caught," you order him.

Sei's tails lash iritably. "When has anyone caught me?" he demands. "Or even seen me if I don't want them to? Go to sleep, my lady. You're drunk."

Naturally. he steps behind a chair and is gone before you can retort. Because he's an asshole.

You know, some other sorcerers have nice, reliable, faithful servants who do what they want. They obey them, and never answer back, and don't whine and whine about wanting to devour the souls of mortals. What did you do to deserve such a creature? It is a burden you bear. An affliction.

An affliction nearly as dire as having gone to a party and met quite a few handsome men, and yet to be sleeping alone. You're tipsy and horny and bored and angry and… urgh! This wyldstorm makes you want to do things, but you don't have anything you'd need to work with because you didn't even know this was a thing that happened in Cahzor!

You sulk for a bit, until pouting with no one to observe and possibly kiss your lips better loses its attraction.

Further investigation reveals a smaller room behind a wall-curtain that serves as a cleaning-room. The servants have laid out a small bowl of water scented with local herbs along with other things to help you with your evening toilet. You strip off your dress, and clean off your makeup. The mirror is polished bronze and barely better than nothing at all; there really isn't enough water to wash yourself further. If you're going to be trapped in this house for more than another day, you're going to need to find what they expect their guests to do to clean themselves properly.

There has to be a bathhouse somewhere in a house this large. There has to be. Even though the Kinzara didn't seem the cleanest…

Well, not you're definitely not getting to sleep. Not until you can get those dark thoughts out of your head.

You pick up one of the yellowing books in the bookshelf, which turns out to be a book of poetry written in High Realm. It's clearly written by someone who doesn't have it as a first language - the grammatical errors suggest they spoke Firetongue. You can still read it well enough, though, and you begin to flip through it as you start eating your sweets.

The poems turn out to be better than you'd thought, and you lose track of time. Outside, the wyldstorm screams and wails. There are voices out there, or things that might be voices, but you know not to listen to them. You're only brought back to yourself at a noise.

The great bells of the fortress chime midnight.

There comes a rap at your door.

You consider what to do. It could be a soul-eating monster. But then, what if it's a handsome soul-eating monster? Or, shit, what if Sei has locked himself out?

Wait, no, he can sleep outside. You're not letting the little bastard in. Even if he scratches at the door.

"Oh, Meira," Haitham says. "Are you in there? And awake? Please don't tell me it's the wrong room, because I'll be awfully embarrassed."

"It is the wrong room," you say, out of pure contrariness.

"Well, I'm mortified. I might as well walk out into the sandstorm and let it end me. There's no way to live it down," he says. He sounds drunk. The kind of drunk where men get very jovial, but not drunk enough to fall over. "But if it's the wrong room, then fate has blessed me, because you're in it."

Well, he's got you there. You swing your legs out of bed, remember to brush stray grains of sugar off your front and open the door a crack. It could still be a trick by an unattractive soul-eating monster. Haitham is there, leaning against the wall, his overrobe gone and his shirt partially unfastened.

"What do you want?" you ask.

"Well, I noticed that you had gone missing, but both Fatin and Munir hadn't left with you. And Sadia mentioned you'd left alone. And for a woman who wore lilac so beautifully, it seemed like such a shame," he says, swaying faintly. "Your flower is too gorgeous to wither without a gardener's attention."

"And I suppose you're volunteering to water it?" you ask him. You raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, your thorns wound me! I am not that shallow." He pauses. "Oh wait, I'm exactly that shallow. But in my defence, I come bearing a great and mighty treasure."

"Oh?"

"I picked up a bottle of sweet dessert wine from the dining room," he says shamelessly. "It would be a shame to drink it all alone."

You look him up and down.

He's slim, but he's not skinny like Zia. And he has a few scars on the outside of his arms - too randomly angled to be anything but taken honourably. After a long day, the bags under his eyes are looking worse, but still, your initial evaluation of him holds true.

Haitham notices you looking him up and down. He grins, slowly and goofily. "Like what you see?" He supports himself against the wall. "You looked really good dancing with that old man, you know. Has he already laid claim to you?"

"Munir?" You scowl. "He's not interested. He has a mistress."

"I don't!" he blurts out. "I mean, I could if I wanted, but…"

You giggle. You can't help it. Oh, young men.

"What's funny?" he demands, puffing up his chest. Oh, you've touched a nerve there, just like any young man. You know the sort. He'll take rejection poorly, especially when you've seen that his rival is already pursuing you. He doesn't look drunk - or stupid - enough to try to force it but the resentment will simmer.

"Little boys are so touchy sometimes," you tell him. "I wore that mask because I'm only looking for someone to share my bed."

"My lady, that's fine with me." His grin widens. "You're the prettiest woman there. If you would only be a cherry blossom to me, then I will hold the memory of your flowering forever."

You laugh at that. "You do like the old poetry, don't you? I'm pretty sure I read that one in the book in the room. You, sir, are a lazy young man who steals from older works."

"I prefer to think of it as homage," he retorts, "a respect for my elders. Now, why don't you let me respect you?"

In the previous vote, you picked the two characters who weren't interested in casual sex, but wore the mask that indicated that was what you wanted. As a result, neither of them reciprocated - while, for example, Munir would have been open to pursuing a further relationship if Rena had worn the mountain lion mask (and something may or may not have happened), because she would have indicated she wanted something longer term.

Though, let's be honest, Fatin had already shown that he didn't like touching people, so maybe the demon mask wasn't the best choice to interact with him.

And so the choice of the demon mask is something others can observe - like Haitham, who noticed that choice mask and the fact Rena went to her room alone, so is taking the chance to make a move. You can still turn him down, of course, but as Rena observes, that will have its own consequences. To put it another way, when you voted to do the political stuff in Cahzor, you made it much harder to not get involved in Cahzori political conflicts - and "I don't want to choose sides" is a choice in its own right with costs.

Article:

Does Rena Invite Him In?
[ ] Yes. He'll do nicely as entertainment for a night. And things work out, he could be useful later.
[ ] No. While you wanted to get laid tonight, you're not interested in him or being seen to side with his family - and because you're tipsy, you say as much.

What are Rena's Plans For Tomorrow? (Pick Two)
[ ] Find a viewing gallery for the wyldstorm and observe it.
[ ] Girl-talk with Sadia, and see what you can pick up from her.
[ ] Explore the fortress of the Kinzara jansi.
[ ] Seek out someone else you talked to at the ball:
- [ ] Who?
[ ] Look further into the Cazhori duelling culture you've heard mention of.

[Exalted] The Dragon's Spite

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