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[Exalted] The Last Daughter -- Dragon-Blooded Sorcery School Quest

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Gazetteer said:
I'm not sure who you mean, sorry. The only Sidereals in this quest confirmed to have been actively doing things in the palace were Grace and Chejop.
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I think they misconstrued Singular Grace as some kind of handle or code name that multiple sidereals had used while visiting the capitol, possibly because of the whole swapping destinies thing or a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of sidereals.
 
Randino Treviani said:
I think they misconstrued Singular Grace as some kind of handle or code name that multiple sidereals had used while visiting the capitol, possibly because of the whole swapping destinies thing or a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of sidereals.
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Probably correct. Still, Scarlet Empress was fairly deep with the Bronze Faction sidereals. Hell she even called favors to get her daughter Ledaal to tutored by them and siderals still help out to her house even giving secrets of the first age to them.
 
have a sudden vision of the empress being missing because she is busy leading 10 baby sidereals through a sort of murder thriller anime inside the imperial manse, with "this is entirely on purpose because she's so exhausted by centuries of sidereal meddling" being a potential motive that keeps getting teased
 
Potato Anarchy said:
have a sudden vision of the empress being missing because she is busy leading 10 baby sidereals through a sort of murder thriller anime inside the imperial manse, with "this is entirely on purpose because she's so exhausted by centuries of sidereal meddling" being a potential motive that keeps getting teased
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Ted the Black Dragon: A Body's Been Discovered!

...if you get it, you get it.
 
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Denouement 2: First Daughter 02 New
  • Threadmarks
    • The Pure Wind Pagoda: 14

    The Pure Wind Pagoda: 13

    Five Tranquilities Pond: 11

    You rise the next morning with considerable trepidation, eat a light breakfast, and prepare for your day.

    You had, of course, not wasted time in responding to Mnemon's letter, and had received an equally prompt reply informing you of where to be and when. There had been almost dismaying little time to mentally prepare yourself.

    Your father's advice had been simple: Be cautious. At present, you have no particular ties to House Mnemon, and you don't know your eldest sister's motivations. At the same time, you must also not be insulting, or dismiss an offer out of hand. It isn't anything that you couldn't have come around to on your own, but it's oddly reassuring to not have to.

    You sit in a low-backed chair in your dressing room, allowing Evening Garnet to finish putting your hair up, taking in the sight of yourself in the mirror. You wear a gown of midnight blue trimmed in gold, the fabric woven with a featuring a subtle scale motif. Your face is painted with a light amount of cosmetics intended to highlight your Aspect Markings rather than obscure them. A gold pendant hangs from a chain around your neck — on one side is an oval-cut emerald, on the other, the scale you received from Diamond-Cut Perfection seven years ago.

    "Thank you, that will be sufficient," you tell the handmaiden. She bows, and steps back. Rising from your seat, you cross over to a wooden box on a nearby table, and retrieve several of the rings you'd purchased on the journey. You slip two onto your fingers, and palm another for now. They're all inexpensive, by Dynastic standards, and altogether verge on an unfashionable gaudiness, but you're more comfortable when you have some disposable gems on hand, under current circumstances.

    Last, you turn to Verdigris, waiting patiently on her bed nearby. You hold out a hand, and she twines up into your sleeve, vanishing into your skin with a prickling of cool Essence. "That should be everything," you say. Maia's dagger sits on the table beside the jewelry box, but you make no move to pick it up. Despite how very far from defenseless the woman you're going to speak with will be, and the increasing difficulty of meaningfully disarming you, bringing a concealed weapon with you to go meet a Great House Matriarch seems like setting out on the wrong footing.

    You navigate a complex series of stairs and hallways, very nearly numb to the splendour around you, for all that you've been away from it for years. Your mind is fixed on your destination, and almost entirely occupied with wondering what exactly Mnemon wants to say to you. So when you step out of an archway and onto an open part of the palace grounds, the sun and the gentle breeze in your face momentarily startle you. You can see the Pure Wind Pagoda in the distance, a delicately tiered structure rising up five levels, its exterior painted bright blue.

    The sun dims again as Garnet silently holds up a dark silken parasol to shade you — you appreciate, as you sometimes do, that she's nearly as tall as you are. It makes these things simpler. Before you proceed, however, you stop where you are, carefully kneeling down to reach the ground. You roll the amber ring you'd palmed earlier around in your hand, appreciating the warm gold of its slender band. Then you will a patch of earth by the path to rise up, taking the grass with it, and leaving you a small hole in which to entomb the jewelry. As the ring is completely covered over, you experience the familiar rush of cold power through your pact with Perfection. Just in case.

    This part of the palace grounds on such a beautiful morning is hardly unoccupied. A number of Dynasts and other notables are nearby, conducting idle conversation near a series of spectacular water fountains. More than one of them had taken note of you as you'd approached. Now, though, almost all of them seem to be looking pointedly away. In groups of ones or twos, they find almost-convincing excuses to move around to the far side of the fountains.

    You will admit that you appreciate the snub this morning — you're not interested in being stopped for niceties multiple times on your way to the Pagoda. As you pass along the edge of a fountain that sends water arcing up high overhead, though, you find that you are stopped at least once. Two Water Aspects break off their conversation at the sight of you. They're both instantly recognisable, and you suppose neither of them are likely to be prone to avoiding social contact with sorcerers.

    "Ambraea." Mnemon Rulinsei sits on the edge of the fountain. Both hands, one made of wizened flesh, the other of black jade, clasp the head of her walking stick. She gives you an appraising look through her one good eye. "I'd heard about the gems. A bit of an expensive way to practice sorcery, isn't it?"

    "Not excessively so, I find," you say. "A pleasure to meet you again." Somehow, you don't entirely believe that this meeting is a coincidence. "And you as well," you add to Rulinsei's companion. She is escorted by the same great-granddaughter you'd seen her with before, a woman somewhat older than you. "Mnemon Rulinei Sulim, was it?"

    "Yes," Sulim says. "The pleasure is mine." The platitude does nothing to soften her uninviting air. She stands beside Rulinsei, having previously been leaned in to confer quietly with her ancestor. She has inherited Rulinsei's stocky build and Aspect Markings, although the unruly waves of her ocean-dark hair lack the spray of white streaked through the latter's.

    "Is running into you this morning a coincidence, elder sister?" you ask.

    "Would you believe me if I said it was?" Rulinsei asks.

    "I would pretend to, for the sake of politeness." Your straight-faced delivery pries a cackling laugh out of her, although Sulim doesn't so much as smile. You'd come away from your last conversation liking Rulinsei, more or less, and she has chosen to address you in a casual enough tone that you feel comfortable with such a joke. Besides, it helps a little with your nerves. "If, for the sake of argument, my meeting you on my way to speak with your Matriarch were not a coincidence, what might you say? That I should trust her?"

    Rulinsei, although still amused, takes on a more serious expression. "Well, you are in a hurry, I suppose," she says. "And, no. Trust is earned, not taken for granted. I'm doing you enough credit not to expect you to just take my word on such matters."

    "You do have your biases," you say.

    "I do," Rulinsei says. She leans forward where she sits, putting her weight on the walking stick. She's graver than you've ever seen her now. "Try to remember why I have those biases, however. I had far less to offer than you do. I was barely sixteen, left crippled and near death by the attack I'd survived. But Mnemon took me in, and I served her as well as I was able — in return, she protected me, taught me what I know of sorcery and geomancy, and gave me a place of honour in her house when she ascended. Faith met with faith, loyalty rewarded, enemies met with retribution. She isn't without her flaws, but you must understand that there are far worse traits that the mother of a house can possess than consistency."

    She isn't making the comparison to the Empress directly, but you know what Rulinsei means. Your mother had been like a raging fire, at times — providing warmth, or burning, or leaving in the cold with the shifting of the wind and her moods and brutal political necessity. Mnemon is known for being harsh, and pragmatic, and for being terrible to her enemies. And yet as much as she'd tried to form herself in your mother's image, no one has ever described her as inconstant. The loyalty she inspires in her family cannot come from nowhere.

    You think back to that conversation you'd had with Rulinsei four years ago, alone on the roof of that Cynis manse out in the city. What she'd said about the Empress's protection. "When you said I couldn't rely on her indefinitely, I didn't think you meant this dramatically."

    "Neither did I," Rulinsei admits. She glances in the direction of the Pure Wind Pagoda. "I can't choose anything for you, but think on what I said, if you will. I shouldn't keep you any longer."

    "I'll accept the advice in the spirit given," you tell her. She's right — you do have places to be. "Good day, elder sister." You incline your head to her, and step back onto the path.

    "Good day, and good luck," Rulinsei says, before you turn away from her, and continue back on your way to the Pagoda.


    The Imperial Palace is often described as a city in its own right, and like any city, beneath the opulence and the stately gardens, there are countless slaves, servants, craftspeople, and laborers who maintain its brilliance. Whole districts of the palace and its grounds are given over to living quarters for the palace's slave and peasant residents, to vast storehouses and kitchens and workshops.

    Singular Grace walks along a narrow lane in between such buildings. Wooden structures, sound and handsome enough, but plain in their construction. Room upon room housing multiple generations, some having been born and lived their entire lives within the palace walls. Grace might have easily grown up into such an existence had she not been given over to Lady Ambraea's service. For a while, at least — she had always been destined for more than a simple life, for good or ill.

    The assignment that had brought Grace back to the Imperial Palace had been a simple one. A particular Thousand Scales official had been married for the past ten years, and that marriage had unexpectedly drifted far too close to a contented understanding between her and her husband. For various reasons relating to the lives the couple's children are destined to lead, it had been important that this be corrected with all due haste.

    In many ways, Grace had been the natural choice. A task important enough to be seen to by a Sidereal directly, but still low stakes in the scheme of what the Division of Serenity is currently juggling. One that would take her back to the very place where she'd grown up from infancy, into the culture that had raised her, and that would require her to quietly maneuver around the petty conflicts of the Realm's elite. In so doing, the Bureau's least experienced Sidereal is assigned a useful task that she can complete without assistance, and the more experienced Joybringers are freed up for other work.

    Grace also suspects that more than one member of the Fellowship is still watching her in case she snaps from self imposed stress, however. The fact that this task will get her out of the office and somewhere scenic for a while, and it will give her the opportunity to see her mother, very likely factored into things. She appreciates the gesture, although she wishes that some of her superiors would stop treating her like she might spontaneously combust.

    Despite how monstrously busy the entire Bureau has been due to a confluence of factors — a horrifying resurgence in Solar Anathema, invasions of the dead, and the Realm's growing woes, among seemingly every other problem happening at once — Grace has found herself slowly relaxing into her new life. She still feels happier keeping busy, but she tries to make a point of taking a bit of time for herself every so often. Letting Yula or other colleagues drag her out for social occasions has become something she looks forward to. Even if Grace has discovered the hard way that she is not equipped to keep up with the specific combination of Yula and Stinging Nettle in terms of recreational drinking.

    A part of herself thinks she should feel worse about the nature of her task. That she'd arrived from heaven, unnoticed and unannounced, and made the lives of not just the married couple, but of a number of others in their family and social orbit worse. She is also a young Exalt, though, and while she's made good progress in taming it, her surging Essence still pulls at her powerfully. She can sense that this is what Destiny requires. Perceives with a perfect clarity what must be done to put reality into harmony with what has been woven into the Loom of Fate. Understands the importance of all this at a bone deep level that it would be frustrating to have to explain to another.

    It's very easy to lose herself in it all, to lose track of the fact that these are real people whose course she's correcting. And to catch herself questioning, in fleeting moments, whether her actions truly carry the same moral weight as others, when no one will remember what she did once she's gone. It's a disturbing development, and one she's likely to be wrestling with for many years to come, even as she gets more of a grip on her own Essence Fever.

    Dressed down as she is and moving with a comfortable ease, Grace passes among the palace peasantry almost without remark, even without a Destiny. None of them know her, but the palace is far too large to know everyone of their station within it, and she's being very careful to do nothing carelessly suspicious. She's all too aware that not all of the palace's many defenses against intrusion are visible to the naked eye, and they are not to be taken lightly.

    Coming out of the narrow confines of the housing lane, Grace immediately steps politely aside to allow a hostler to pass by, leading several fine horses. The older man gives her a smile in exchange, which Grace returns. She waits for a gap in traffic along the larger path before darting across. She rounds a corner into a more secluded area, and is immediately struck by an almost painful stab of nostalgia.

    "Rima, is this a good idea? It's very high!"

    An oak tree grows up ahead, broad and tall enough to have seen centuries pass by. A child of seven or eight stands near the bottom, anxiety clear in the set of his narrow shoulders. Above him, a girl several years older sits on one of the lower branches, her expression no less worried. They look absolutely nothing like each other, and are wearing the simple attire of slaves.

    Grace sees who they're looking at immediately, a flash of colour in the upper branches. A girl dressed far more finely in a bright yellow dress is demonstrating far more bravery and far less sense than her companions, looking down at them with self satisfied delight. "You worry too much!" she calls down, reaching for another branch. Grace notes that she's at least taken off her silken palace shoes to do this. The Dynast child is nine at the most, ready to be sent off to primary school soon enough, and still enjoying the last, fleeting months of a childhood spent among tutors and nannies and servant children.

    "Rima!" the boy cries out, seeing what's about to happen at the same time Grace does. The Dynast girl, Rima, has put her foot down on a branch that's simply too slender to bear her weight. It flexes dangerously, before giving out, leaving nothing but thin air below her. The child gives a horrified cry, dangling by her arms, her legs flailing for purchase beneath her. Then her strength gives out, and she falls.

    The drop is unlikely to be tall enough to kill, but it will almost certainly inflict a significant injury, the hard stones of the courtyard bruising flesh or breaking bone. Grace puts on a burst of speed and runs across the little courtyard, skidding to a halt at precisely the right point for the girl to drop into her arms. The girl's pain and misery from such an injury, and that of her companions from the inevitable punishment they would receive, had not been the will of destiny. The absence of that pain hadn't been predestined either. What does it say about Grace that she had checked first?

    "My lady," Grace says, her voice gently chiding as she looks down into the girl's wide eyes, "you must be more careful. Are you alright to stand?"

    Rima, robbed of whatever noble dignity she could have otherwise mustered, merely nods. She's rendered a pale, dark-haired Wàn girl, heart still pounding from her near miss. Gently, Grace sets her down on her feet, a hand on the girls shoulder for a moment longer until she can be sure that she isn't going to fall over. "What is your name, my lady?"

    "C-Cynis Rima," Rima says, mastering herself a little.

    Grace nods, letting her expression get a little bit sterner. "Well, you seem to be unharmed, at least, Lady Rima. Did you sneak away from your lessons this morning?" Rima doesn't immediately answer, but her suddenly-guilty posture is all the answer Grace needs. "Who do you think would be punished more, if I hadn't been there to catch you?" she asks.

    "I..." Rima glances in the direction of her playmates, who are looking on with an air of surprise and uncertainty. The older girl belatedly slides back to the ground to stand beside the boy. "They would," she admits, something about Grace's air of gentle chastisement prying the answer from her. It's not a tack Grace would have taken with a Dynast any older than Rima is. Dynastic children begin life heeding the directions of various adult servants, and their power and responsibility within the household is only gradually and conditionally increased over time. Once Rima has had even a year of primary school, though, the expectations for her behaviour and her responsibility will intensify. She wouldn't have swallowed such a tone from a strange servant woman at that point.

    One would hope she also wouldn't have been skiving off to climb trees at that point, but you can only expect so much from a nine year old.

    "Exactly," Grace says, her expression serious, a subtle thread of power in her voice. "Your playmates will be punished for letting you get hurt, and after you're the one who led them out here! A lady has a responsibility to protect those under her, not just the right to tell them what to do. Do you think the Dragons are likely to bless a girl who can't mind that responsibility?"

    This is not quite how Dragon-Blooded Exaltation works, and Grace is certain that the girl has been taught better. Whether or not she Exalts in this life has more to do with her parents than anything she does now. Her religious instruction would also have told her, very plainly, that the deeds that earn a soul such an honour would have occurred across her past lives. But Dynasts Rima's age are already filled with the slowly mounting fear that the Dragons will pass them by. Grace is not above taking advantage of that to impart a lesson that she hopes will stick even after the memory of Grace herself has vanished from all of their heads. Lying to a child feels significantly more acceptable when it's in the interests of encouraging her to be thoughtful about the vast social and legal power she will one day wield over others.

    "... No," Rima says, voice very quiet.

    "And see that you remember that," Grace says. "I was there when my lady was Chosen by Pasiap, and she would never have been so heedless." This is only partially true — Ambraea had had her own share of childish flaws and petulant traits, growing up, and even as a young adult she had never exactly been perfect, but Rima doesn't need to know that. Grace takes a step back, casting her gaze over all three children. "You should all run along before you're missed."

    The servant children send Grace a look that's simultaneously grateful and wary, but Rima takes the cue, retrieves her shoes, and takes off, calling for the other two. They don't wait much longer. Grace watches after them for a moment, standing in the shade of the tree, remembering things from simpler days. It had actually been nice seeing Ambraea this time — less stressful or painful, compared to when she'd run into her with that Wyld Hunt. Speaking to her quietly in a palace garden had felt almost normal.

    Grace is concerned for Ambraea's wellbeing, of course. The Realm and the Dynasty are in a precarious place, and Grace is aware of how it might go poorly for her former lady — at the moment, though, there is someone else who Grace is more immediately concerned with. Someone who is not a Dynast and an Exalted sorcerer in her own right.

    Short minutes later, she spies her mother in the midst of making the journey to the cramped little room that the palace has given her to work out of, her arms full of papers and ledgers passed to her from the palace scribes. Grace feels a pang in her stomach at the sight of her — Lohna does not seem well. Not even fifty yet, she is showing the signs of aging before her time, the hardships of her life catching up to her rapidly in the past few years.

    There's one other obvious change that has occurred in the past few years that could explain that, and Grace hates the thought of it.

    Quietly, she catches up with Lohna, walking alongside her in the shadow of a high wall. "Those look very heavy," she says in Low Realm.

    Lohna looks up at her with surprise, but no recognition. "I do very well, miss," she says, recognising that she is speaking to some manner of free servant.

    Grace smiles at her. "I have an hour or two free, and I could use the company. Let me help you." To Grace's bittersweet relief, she can see Lohna respond to her presence as Ambraea had before, clearly set at ease by her even without knowing why.

    Despite her better judgment, Lohna relents, making to shift over half of her stack of papers. She gives a slight sigh as Grace simply takes the entire stack from her arms. "Well, there are worse traits than minding one's elders, I suppose," Lohna says, giving up and simply leading the way. She looks at Grace sidelong. "Forgive me for asking," she says, dropping tentatively into her native Seatongue dialect, "but are you from the Cowries? You have the look."

    "My mother is," Grace says, replying in the same language, albeit more awkwardly, "I was born here."

    "Ah, well, a common story in the Realm," Lohna says, her tone a little wistful. "There aren't so many of us on this side of the Isle. My room is just up ahead." Sure enough, the little door that led to Lohna's workspace is up ahead, almost hidden at the corner between one wall and the other.

    "It will be good to get out of the sun for a moment," Grace says, seeing it.

    "It's kind of you to be so helpful, miss," Lohna says, holding the door open for Grace. "I'm sorry, I feel like you must have told me — what did you say your name was, again?"

    Grace enters the small office ahead of her, carefully setting the stack of documents down on the open space on Lohna's tiny desk. The office is the same as she remembers it, tiny, efficiently-utilised, uncomfortably warm. She ignores the small twist of pain that accompanies the question, smiles, and — because sometimes she's cruel to herself — answers with: "Demure Peony."

    "A pretty name," Lohna says. "I've always liked peonies."

    "My mother wanted to give me a Realm style name, and expected me to go into service," Grace explains, "she thought it was appropriate for a handmaiden." And, because she very desperately wants to do something to keep her hands busy, she begins to sort the documents for her mother.

    "Oh, wait, I have a sys—" Lohna stops in the middle of lunging for Grace's arm as she begins to separate the papers out into the appropriate piles on Lohna's desk. She frowns. "Oh, well, I see you've figured it out."

    It hadn't been particularly hard — Grace had parsed out the gist of it in a moment, and Fate is kind enough to guide her hands for the rest. "You look tired," Grace says. "Sit down, catch your breath. I have quite a bit of experience with sorting paperwork."

    Lohna hesitates for a moment, but Grace's voice is soothing, persuasive, insidiously familiar in a way that continues to be hard to place. Lohna finds herself settling down into her chair. "My age has been catching up to me," Lohna admits. Then, the words passing from her lips almost unnoticed: "Thank you, my Flower. I've missed you."

    Grace feels the paperwork slip out of her hands, scattering palace expense reports all over the spotless floor. She stares at Lohna, hot tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, not yet willing to believe that she really heard what she'd just heard.

    Lohna looks back at her, first confusion, then shock coming over her face, and she presses her hands to her mouth. "Peony?" she whispers, with the recognition Grace has so desperately wanted to hear in someone — anyone's — voice these past three years. "Peony. What's going on? Why didn't I know you?"

    Singular Grace, Chosen of Venus, weaver of destinies, slayer of Anathema, and personal student of one of the most powerful figures of heaven, feels her legs wobble beneath her, and she can't stop the tears from coming. "Mama," she manages, unable to articulate anything more than that. Then, as though she were a child with a skinned knee, she throws herself down onto the floor, flings her arms around Lohna's waist, and begins to sob, harsh and uncontained.

    Lohna Prince's Scribe, confused and frightened as she is, still understands what her duty is in this moment. She wraps her arms around her daughter, cradling Grace's head against her body, and holds her tightly while Grace finally lets it all out.


    The Pure Wind Pagoda is more imposing up close, the tiered structure looming over you as you approach the entrance. The doors are open, accessed by a flight of stone steps leading up to it. On the third level overhead is another door, letting out onto a gold-railed balcony. You can't see inside yet.

    Two armoured figures wearing Mnemon colours stand near the base of the stairs. At your approach, one of them steps forward, bowing deeply. "Lady Ambraea," she says. "The Matriarch awaits you inside."

    You nod in reply, glancing to Garnet. "I cannot be certain how long this will take," you tell her.

    "I will remain nearby, my lady," Garnet says, bowing as well before stepping back.

    You begin to walk up the steps, happy for the comforting presence of Verdigris' Essence mingled with your own. You're at least not entirely alone. As you crest the stairs and step inside the pagoda, it takes a moment or two for your eyes to adjust — when they do, you're stopped short.

    The bottom floor of the pagoda is almost entirely unwalkable, taken up as it is by its famed carved map. The Blessed Isle is rendered in exaggerated but meticulous detail before you. The Imperial Mountain rises up nearly to your waist, it and the lesser mountains of the Isle partition the northern part of the map from your view. A sea of glittering, inlaid aquamarine rings the entire landmass, major rivers rendered similarly. Almost directly ahead of you is the port of Arjuf marked in rose quartz, the other major cities and prefectural lines marked out in different colours. The expanse of the Dragonswrath Desert is a field of citrine spreading north from the southeastern coast, surrounded by mountains. It's all enough of a wonder that you have to force yourself to stop staring and remember why you're here.

    The walls of the Pagoda are painted ornately with representations of four of the Dragons, surrounded by the trappings of their Direction. Pasiap winds up the walls above them, giving the impression that he hovers above the Blessed Isle itself. The only people you immediately see are a pair of attendants standing silently off to the side, their eyes cast down. Beside you, however, a staircase of dark, polished wood climbs the interior of the Pagoda, leading up to a viewing platform a third of the way up the structure. There, you catch sight of a violet-clad figure.

    Taking a deep breath, you climb yet more stairs, not dawdling, but making sure to at least maintain your dignity on the way up. The higher you go, the more of the beautiful map below unfolds. The Imperial City with the palace at its centre, the carving clad in carnelian and red garnet, gleaming in the light from above. By the time you have reached the top of the stairs, the whole of the map is visible.

    The doorway to the balcony is on this platform, a gentle summer's breeze wafting in from outside. Near to that sits a small table set for two, containing a tea set exquisitely in white and purple porcelain. And standing at the railing on the far end of the platform, looking out over the Blessed Isle itently, is Mnemon.

    Your eldest living sister has her back to you, hands clasped behind her. She's tall, pale, red-haired, a tiara of white jade resting on her brow. You get the feeling, from the way that she's looking at the rendering of the Realm below, she's already considering changes.

    Mnemon turns her head to regard you coolly, not yet turning fully around. "Sister. I am pleased you answered my invitation in such a timely manner." Hers are your mother's features, but carved from alabaster, her eyes like cold amethyst. She has none of the Empress's overwhelming bonfire presence or V'neef's treacherous warmth. This makes her no less striking or imposing.

    You bow exactly as low as her station demands. "I am not so ill-mannered to keep you waiting, Matriarch," you say. "You are a very busy woman, I'm sure."

    "Not so ill-mannered, or so unwise?" Mnemon says, a thin trace of humour coming into her voice. "Feel free to unbend, a little. I haven't brought you here to eat you."

    "No, I hadn't imagined you would," you say, although at the same time, you try to remove some of the stiffness from your voice.

    Mnemon is silent for a further moment, still looking down at the map. When she speaks again, the levity is gone. "The Realm seems strong, when viewed from a distance. United, unimpeachable. But in truth, it's more fragile than any care to admit. The houses vie against one another like starving dogs wrestling for scraps. The Thousand Scales are barely restrained from open corruption if not constantly kept in check. And always, enemies without and within bide their time and strike when the opportunity presents. The Immaculate Order can only do so much on their own. The Realm must be held together, body and soul, by an iron will."

    Before you can think of a way to answer that, Mnemon waves a hand toward the table. "Please, sit."

    You look at the table, with its already-prepared tea, and empty cups. As you had on that day with your mother all those years ago, you understand what is expected of you. You hadn't resented the high handedness of it, when it had come from the Empress. Still, as established you have your manners, and she is your elder sister. With calm, steady hands, you pour a cup of smoky smelling black tea first for Mnemon, then a second for yourself.

    Mnemon's attention is still gripped by the stone map laid out below. Her eyes seem to travel along the curve of the Blessed Isle's coast. There isn't lust or greed or grasping ambition in her bearing, only proprietary confidence. As if she looks upon something that, in her heart, is already hers. "I cannot believe that my—" She stops, corrects herself. "That our revered mother would deliberately endanger her Realm and the world that it nurtures through such an extended absence if it were her choice. We must, of course, give her the time that she is owed, out of respect and the need for absolute certainty, but the Realm's needs must come first, at some point. Eventually, should we be forced to conclude the worst, we must be prepared to take action accordingly. If she does not reemerge, I will be the next Empress."

    You try not to openly stare, for all that she still isn't looking directly at her. You hadn't expected such a bold declaration. You even hadn't let yourself think this far ahead, to the prospect of outright replacing your mother — it still seems unthinkable to you. When you force yourself to really consider the prospect, though, Mnemon may not be wrong. The Empress has five living daughters. One is you, one is Rulinsei, one is a disgraced former general sitting in self-enforced exile. Of the two who are matriarchs of their own Great Houses, V'neef is very young and untested beside Mnemon. Still, you can't help but ask: "The other houses have agreed to this, Matriarch?"

    Mnemon sighs. Her eyes roam the map again, looking from Eagle's Launch down to Riven Quay — the strongholds of houses V'neef and Ragara. "There are always those who will choose their own selfish interests in the face of what is required to achieve a greater good. I and the other Great House Matriarchs will convene a council on the subject soon, and they will have their opportunity for objection. In the end, however, what must be done will be done."

    Then she straightens, turning to face you fully as she approaches the table where you sit. "Do you know why I have called you here?" she asks.

    Still a little rattled by the turn the conversation has taken so far, you sense a test in the question. You decide to answer honestly. "I am at loose ends, unattached to any Great House. You wish to align me with yours."

    Mnemon takes her seat, picks up her teacup, inhales its fragrance with an appreciative air. "And why would I want to do that?"

    Somehow, you know that this isn't the time to falter. "I am among the most promising sorcerers of my generation. I am young, but skilled for my age. My accomplishments are undeniable. And my bloodline is beyond reproach." You put a very slight note of challenge into this last, aware of how little she has approved of your father's family and their faith in the past. The Maharan jati, straddling both of the ruling Dragon Clans since the Empire of Prasad's founding, has maintained their Dragon-Blooded lineages meticulously.

    "Whatever moral and spiritual failings the Prasadis have let themselves fall to, they have not forgotten how to cultivate a bloodline," Mnemon admits. She relents: "It is true, though. That you have fought demons and Anathema and triumphed where many older and more experienced would have fled or fallen speaks well of your bravery and your virtue. And from what I have heard of your talents, there is no reason why you should not become a great sorcerer, with the fullness of time and proper guidance."

    "Thank you, Matriarch," you say, reaching for your own cup of tea. It's impossible not to find the description of you flattering, or to miss her implication — there are very few in the Realm who would be better qualified to supply 'proper guidance' on sorcerous matters than Mnemon.

    "On its own, it will not be enough, however," Mnemon says. "As you are, you will be at the mercy of the Dynasty. One can be punished for excellence as easily as rewarded."

    Your grip on your teacup tightens, but you don't let yourself shatter it — it would leave a very bad impression, you feel. "I am not unaware of my position," you say, voice quiet.

    "I have been alone and near friendless myself, once," Mnemon says. "I am not without sympathy. There were those who granted me succor then, when I was younger than you are now — I am inclined to offer you the same in turn." There's a strangely genuine expression in her eyes, although she still isn't smiling. She's sincere in this, you think. This woman who has just implied she will crush anyone and anything that stands between her and the throne, if it comes to that, is genuinely extending a hand to you, despite the lack of prior connection. In many ways, you could not have wished for better under the circumstances

    Still, it's as your father says: you cannot appear desperate. Or forget that you have others whose wellbeing you must see to. "I am genuinely flattered by your offer, Matriarch," you say, speaking slowly, carefully. "I am sure you're aware of my... prior associations, however."

    "I do not care for your father," Mnemon says, gesturing with her free hand as though it's of little concern, "but, I would hardly begrudge an adoptive daughter appropriate filial loyalty. In fact, I would think less of you if it were not so." Her meaning is clear — your father would be safe from her displeasure, and you have no doubt that her strong connections with the Immaculate Order would be the best possible shield against the Order's more reactionary elements. "As for your Hearthmates, they might be skilled and, I assume, devoted to you, but a patrician and a Tepet will be looking to you for protection and support in the years to come more than anything else."

    She's correct — you have promised to defend Maia and Sola against all others. To keep faith with them ahead of all others. To be their pillar of strength, the solid Earth they walk upon, the bulwark against their enemies. You can't truly be that as you are now. The phrase 'adoptive daughter' doesn't escape you. What she's offering is not simply a marriage into her house. Adoption is a closer, more binding prospect — you would not simply be married to a Mnemon, you would become Mnemon Ambraea.

    And L'nessa would never forgive you. Maybe in a different, less volatile time she might have understood, but now, when her family must have a very real worry of what Mnemon might do without the Empress to restrain her? You have no doubt of exactly how badly she'd take it. L'nessa is not your Hearthmate, but she is still a dear friend, and you can't bring yourself to dismiss the concern out of hand. "I'm certain you're also aware of the ties I have been building to House V'neef. Your disagreements are public knowledge."

    "Yes. Preliminary marriage negotiations based on several assumptions that no longer apply, any longer." Mnemon sips her tea for a slow, contemplative moment. A gesture that almost hides the flare of annoyance that the name seems to bring her. "I am also aware of your association with the youngest girl," she says, as if it were no great concern. A trifling secondary school acquaintanceship, easily cast aside. She looks down into the cup she clutches in her hand, studying her own mon adorning the interior. "As much as it might shock..." she almost visibly considers and discards several unkind descriptors, before settling on: "... our sister, she is not always foremost in everyone's thoughts. I have more to trouble myself with than simply visiting cruelties upon one small house."

    "As you say, Matriarch," you say, your voice as calm and even as you can make it, your expression carefully schooled.

    Still, you feel the weight of her gaze, studying you like a puzzle that isn't particularly hard to solve. Some of your doubts for L'nessa's long term safety must show through despite your best efforts — for the first time, she frowns, eyes hardening just a touch. Mnemon sets her cup down carefully in front of her, and leans forward. Her presence may be very different from your mother's, but it is scarcely less commanding. "I," she says, voice strangely soft, "am not Ragara. Something for which none of you are sufficiently grateful."

    You experience a powerful, but frustratingly childish urge to sink down into your seat, to evade her notice. What can you possibly say to that? Are you grateful that you haven't spent the decade since you Exalted fleeing for your life from Mnemon's assassins, that she isn't bloody-minded enough to reach for fratricide as her first and favoured tool for securing the throne? You will admit that you had never thought to be, in particular, before this moment.

    But there's a challenge in her voice as much as there's genuine frustration. You draw yourself up, force your voice to be firm, but not disrespectful. "I find myself very grateful," you say, carefully finding your way through the sentiment, "that I have been allowed to live my life in a peaceful time, that I have been afforded the protection necessary to grow and come into my power without being menaced by the powerful. It is hard to appreciate that kind of safety before it's gone, I think. I still will not apologise for the circumstances of my youth."

    "Nor should you, I suppose," Mnemon says. She seems to have recovered enough from the flare of temper for her voice to carry a note of approval. "You have some backbone. Good. I can make use of spinelessness, but I do not respect it in a woman. Now, as you said, I am a very busy woman — shall I make my offer to you explicit?"

    "Please," you say, remembering to take a sip of the tea. It's extremely pleasant, and the temperature is perfect.

    Mnemon nods. "Very well. You would accept adoption into my house as my own daughter, serve me well and loyally and to the best of your abilities, renounce all notional claim to the Scarlet Throne. In return, you will have my protection, my support, and my guidance. Burano Maharan Nazat will also receive whatever protections I can offer him."

    You nod. It's as you expected, although it's a little strange to think of a claim on the Scarlet Throne being something you need to formally renounce — notional is right. Out of all your mother's extant children, the only one who might arguably have worse odds of one day becoming Empress is your half-brother Ivorette, and he's not even Exalted. You're vastly too young, you have no house of your own, you lack Oban's impeccable connections or even Berit's formidable reputation. At very best, in certain eventualities, you might have made someone a sort of figurehead, or a would-be claimant's spouse of convenience.

    The closest thought you'd ever entertained to one day taking your mother's throne has been the prospect of the official heir she was due to announce on the thousandth year of her rule. By Realm Year 1000, you would be halfway through your third century, an old woman — but a sufficiently powerful sorcerer, especially one with the resources of her own Great House, can forestall old age for a very long time. The woman sitting across from you is proof of that. If the stars had so aligned, you'd thought you might have had a chance.

    It isn't really worth thinking of now, when you have far more pressing concerns.

    "May I have time before I give you an answer?" you ask.

    "Of course, sister," Mnemon says, giving you a small smile before she raises her cup to her lips again. "A short amount of time. I urge you to choose well."


    Grace's tears have long since dried, but they've left her feeling profoundly spent. The emotions she's only sporadically let herself feel in full over the past several years have all poured out of Grace at once, and she's almost numb in the wake of it.

    Grace now sits on a chair directly across from Lohna, her mother holding Grace's hand in both of hers in case Grace simply disappears on her again. Lohna's expression as she stares at Grace, at her strange eyes and altered bearing, is not disbelieving so much as overwhelmed. Lohna attempts to keep the facts she's just been told straight in her head. "You're really Exalted?" Lohna has lived in the shadow of Dragon-Blooded for decades, and is an educated woman besides, whatever her current station. She knows what the word means, even if the form of it that Grace is trying to explain is strange and unfamiliar.

    "Yes," Grace says. With the slightest effort, her Caste Mark flares on her brow, lighting the dim room in gentle blue.

    Tentatively, Lohna reaches out to touch her daughter's forehead, finding the mark entirely cool to the touch. Wonderment and confusion seem to war behind her eyes.

    "You recognise Venus's symbol," Grace says.

    "I do," says Lohna, taking her hand away slowly. "Chosen by the goddess of love..." she looks into Grace's eyes again, seeming to see past the unfamiliar colour and the glittering stars, recognising something less than happy there. "Aren't you lonely, though, Flower?"

    "I have been," Grace admits. "And still, sometimes. But I have friends in heaven now. People who care about me. We're all good about looking out for each other." To a fault, at times, despite factional bickering and routine manipulations. Her mother doesn't need the messy details. "It was very hard, at first. Everyone forgot me at once. Lady Ambraea just... looked right through me, like I was another strange servant."

    "I always hoped she'd look after you," Lohna says, horrified. The hand that still holds Grace's squeezes tighter. "I thought she would."

    "It wasn't her fault," Grace says. "Dragon-Blooded aren't all-powerful, whatever they like to think. It wasn't because she didn't care."

    "I know they aren't," Lohna says, sighing. It's a dangerous sentiment for her to express if she said it the wrong way, to the wrong person. "It really was like you said — she wanted to take me away from the palace, give me a retirement. She can't do that anymore, though, with Her Excellency gone."

    Grace feels a touch of fear for her mother's safety, thinking again about her status as a slave belonging to a vanished Empress, in a Realm that may yet fall to war. If Ambraea can't help Lohna, then who else does she have but Grace herself? Dropping her voice to a whisper, Grace asks: "If I could get you away from here, take you somewhere safe, would you go? I could take you back to the Neck, or anywhere. I could... I could free you."

    Lohna freezes up, a fearful look coming into her eyes. She glances around, as if making sure that no one had heard that. "I... I've seen what happens to slaves that run," she says, voice very quiet.

    "Do you think I'd let that happen? That I'd let anyone hurt you?" Grace asks.

    Lohna slowly makes herself relax, although it's clearly difficult. "No," she says, "not if you could make it otherwise. But please understand, I haven't seen my homeland in well over two decades. It's part of a satrapy now, the 'Lesser Cowries', governed out of Amphiro. When I saw it last, it was burning. I don't know how many of my family survived that invasion, if any of them did. There's no home left for me there."

    "But I can't just leave you alone here," Grace says.

    "Won't you be able to come see me, sometimes?" Lohna asks, hopeful in a way that breaks Grace's heart. "It won't be so bad that way." As Grace averts her eyes, Lohna frowns. "What's wrong?"

    Grace takes a deep breath, and tells her, her voice very small. "When I leave, you will forget about me again. Just like before."

    "No!" Grace is startled by the forcefulness of the denial. Lohna lets go of her hand, and pulls Grace into a tight, desperate hug. "No, please don't say that."

    "I can't—" Grace's voice comes out thick, choked up. "It will be easier in a way, won't it? You can't mourn what you don't know you've lost."

    "Flower," Lohna says, "Flower, I have been heartbroken for the past three years, never knowing why. It was all worth it, everything that happened to me, knowing that you could have a good life. Without you, what was any of it for?"

    "I'm sorry," Grace says. "I didn't do this on purpose."

    Lohna continues to hold her tight for a silent minute. Then she says, as if she can barely bring herself to think it: "Do you swear that if I go with you, we won't be caught? Please remember, whether or not she's here you will be robbing the Empress." The fear of being caught and punished is still there, but Lohna has just been presented with something she's even more afraid of.

    "I swear," Grace says, meaning it as much as any promise she's made in her life. "Where do you want to go, if not to the Neck?"

    Lohna only hesitates briefly. "Can't I stay with you?" she asks. "Is that allowed?"

    "I... " Grace falters. Gods keep mortals in heaven, after all — as consorts or servants or curiosities. Legally, she should be able to bring her mother there. Grace hadn't considered the possibility of actually bringing her mother home with her before now, but if it's really what Lohna wants...

    "Yes," Grace says. "I have a very large house in heaven, inherited from my predecessor. There would be room." Specifically, it's a Celestial manse passed down to her by her previous incarnation, a structure of such opulence that Grace doesn't know what to do with it most days. "I should say," Grace says, "you wouldn't be a slave there. But most humans do not have very much legal status in heaven, you would be reliant on me. And you would still forget me. We can't prevent that."

    "But I would remember you again sometimes?" Lohna says, releasing Grace enough to be able to look her in the eye again. "I did it once, I can do it again."

    "Maybe," Grace says, not wanting to give herself false hope. "It can get... easier over time." Arcane Fate is supposedly easier to overcome with sufficient knowledge of it, and of Sidereals in general. But especially for a mortal, it was never going to be kind enough to relent entirely for any being bound to fate.

    "As long as I don't have to lose you again," Lohna says. "Please believe that I love you even when I don't know your face."

    "I do, mama," Grace says. Her feelings are a heady mixture of elation and anxiety and dread, but it seems that they're committed now. "We'll make it work."

    Lohna nods. "I... would like to give Lady Ambraea an explanation before we go. If we can."

    Grace very nearly balks at that — it adds a further element of risk to what can currently only very generously be described as a plan. All the same, she finds herself nodding. Dynast or not, Grace does believe that Ambraea loves Lohna, in her way. And Grace has enough care for her that she doesn't want to be responsible for Ambraea losing the woman who raised her without so much as a word.

    Lohna gives a sigh, looking around at her surroundings as though the thought of leaving them is still strange to her. "I raised you both. I gave her all the care I could, and tried to make her into a good woman, despite a thousand things in her life that might make her otherwise. I'm proud of her, most of the time. But you are my daughter, first and always, and you need me more than she does."

    "Thank you," Grace says. This will have to work — she can't let herself think otherwise.


    You exit the Pagoda first, to find Garnet in conversation with one of the Mnemon guards you'd talked to before. At the sight of you, both the soldier and the servant take a hasty step back from each other. Garnet, still carrying the parasol, bows to you. "My lady. I hope your talk was productive."

    "It was," you say. You hope. You walk the rest of the way down the stairs, and continue on your way. There's still a great deal of daylight left, but clouds have passed over the sun, lessening the glare. "Regardless, though, we should—"

    You stop short in the middle of the walking path, eyes fixed on the tiny, winged figure hovering in front of you. An Infallible Messenger. "What is it?" you ask the sprite. Behind you, Garnet has stopped short at the same time you have. She watches the sorcerous construct warily.

    The Messenger flips around once in the air, and begins to say, in a very familiar voice that only you can hear: "Ambraea. I know I already sent you a message through more conventional means, and I understand why you prioritised a different engagement ahead of mine. But I must speak to you now, very pressingly, I find. For my peace of mind, if nothing else. I can see you, please nod if you agree." Feeling a little uneasy and strangely guilty, you nod. "Good," L'nessa says. "If you could meet me in one hour's time, I will be—"

    Article:
    Where is V'neef L'nessa asking you to meet her?

    [ ] The Hall of Triumphal Glory

    A monument erected in honour of one of your half siblings, now largely abandoned and seldom visited.

    [ ] Idle Blossom Library

    Just one of the many libraries and archives the Imperial Palace houses, this one dedicated to literature.

    [ ] Jinmei Tower

    A tower that contains an elaborate menagerie, each level a different biome. Popular with palace goers of all sorts.
     
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    • [x] Jinmei Tower

    "Oh, you're in all your best clothing and with all your best make-up on to meet Mnemon? That works. Meet me at the zoo. What do you mean 'overdressed'? Get over here!"
     
    Okay soo That's Memenon.
    I mean Mnemon! Mnemon.
    Memenon might live in my head rent free, something…
    I think the problem is without something to distinguish her in my head Mnemon kind of feels like she's such an archetype to flatten out her personal complexities.

    [x] Jinmei Tower
    I'm very curious how L'neef is going to outdo the local Tin Tyrant.
     
    Gazetteer said:
    Lohna looks back at her, first confusion, then shock coming over her face, and she presses her hands to her mouth. "Peony?" she whispers, with the recognition Grace has so desperately wanted to hear in someone — anyone's — voice these past three years. "Peony. What's going on? Why didn't I know you?"
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    First Amiti remembering Instructor Sai longer than she should, and next Lohna managing to break through for a few moments - is the Sidereal forgetfulness failing?

    Also - after all the speculation, the venue probably changed who'se counteroffer we get first. Or maybe it would always be V'Neef. Now what do the various places to meet L'nessa mean?

    [X] The Hall of Triumphal Glory

    To give this desperate attempt the proper aura of tragedy.
     
    [x] Jinmei Tower

    I suppose an audience is more V'neef's style.

    I have mixed feelings on Mnemon. I'm not sure if she's determined to offer Ambraea no better a deal than she offered Rulinsei on principal, pride, or sheer stubbornness, but it's still a little insulting, but at the same time she does seem to have some fundamental principals she holds herself to.

    Ambraea has options, the least appealing of which is to go to prasad and start over as the granddaughter of an empress in her own right. she has two powerful house's to which she has sufficient ties to marry into and ascend in her own right in time, both of which are contenders to the dragon throne even if Mnemon prefers to ignore that possibility. there are other options as well given Ambraea's accomplishments.

    Overall Mnemon's offer is the one of a woman too used to others needing her protection and demanding everything in return, and unwilling to adapt to accommodate differing circumstances or the developing political situation. sooner or later it's going to cost her more than she bargained for.
     
    grommile said:
    And this has such a "quiet part out loud" vibe.
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    No one appreciates Mnemon's grace and forbearance 😔

    nothingtoseehere said:
    First Amiti remembering Instructor Sai longer than she should, and next Lohna managing to break through for a few moments - is the Sidereal forgetfulness failing?
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    No, it's just always a bit imperfect. It works well enough to destroy lives, but not well enough to be 100% reliable, especially when you're dealing with an Exalt as with Amiti. As Amiti notes, the wound in her soul that Sai helped create when they initiated her into necromancy seems to help keep Sai in her head.
     
    Honestly, I don't think Memnon's offer should be discounted. The offer of adoption is frankly really hard to beat we'll immediately gain the support and resources we need to protect those we care about not to mention those we need to allow further studies and development. Also based on my understanding of Memnon's character she's actually a pretty good Matriarch. She won't just randomly decide to stab us in the back, she'll reward good service and she will absolutely defend us from any external enemies we might have. If we ever wanted to extract Maia from her family for example Memnon would be one of the very few people who could offer us enough protection to survive their retaliation.

    On a larger scale Memnon is not wrong, without an Empress the realm will get significantly worse for the average citizen and eventually collapse. If the Realm collapses or even if no one regains control of the Realm Defence Grid then there's a very real chance of Creation coming apart at the seams. Memnon is one of the very few people who has the knowledge, skills and connections to have even half a chance of holding the whole thing together.
     
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