Tales of the Wyld-Dark Sea (Exalted)

[Kaiya]

When Juran returns at last to the Port of Pravance, seat of the Earl of the Province of Pravance, it is not the call of duty that draws him there. His actual duties in Pravance are few, Marxom earlier explained, with just a hint of the seething envy and resentment he was truly feeling, that "Lemane" is the Earl's term for the freedom granted to Raksha who have served their betters in some exceptional manner, and thus earned a space away from the constant demands of the nobility and a number of lesser fae and mortal chattel to boss around and abuse themselves. His primary duties are to obey orders important enough to be conveyed to him without the Earl losing interest in whatever it was soon after speaking it, and to attend to the Earl promptly in times of war.

Nonetheless, Juran's return to court is met with much obligatory fanfare on behalf of the Earl's underlings, sincere only when their lord might overhear directly. Goblins and wights run about, pausing to greet him enthusiastically, and occasionally, when safe to do so, with obvious disrespect and a rude gesture, and when he enters the Earl's throne room, the towering Raksha is being attended by the Overseer of the Goblins, whose personal name, Marxom had quietly informed him, was Flensing Claw.

The Goblin Overseer is a lithe, wicked creature with long, clawed limbs and dark green skin mottled with odd growths and many, many scars. Goblins in general lack noses, having overlarge slits in their brutal, sneering faces instead, and while none of their species have much more than lumps of skin with a hole for the ears, this one has clearly had his ears burnt off at some point in the past, and fresh scabs surrounded by scar tissue indicates that he must periodically claw open the wounds or the skin scars over the holes he uses to hear.

"-twelve more missing today, I have the numbers here!" the goblin is growing in his perpetually furious, scratchy voice, shaking a sheaf of papers at the Earl, "Even since the Lemane's guest began building that wretched city, our citizens have been running off to it, shirking their duties and forcing ill-suited substitutions to be made! There are no child beggers to adorn the street corners, we have old men begging aid of wights, and they hardly cower when struck! Something must be done about it!"

Waiting in a line, Juran recognizes the red-haired Lorelei in charge of the kitchens and stoking the water to boil with her baudy songs, arms crossed and glaring irately at the Wight Commander ahead of her. The towering silver beast exhibits no particular emotion, but its claws drip red with blood, and there are broken shards of porcelain embedded in its feet, and silvery bloodstains behind it, so something dramatic clearly has occurred.

"Oh dear," Juran calls, his voice warm and amused as he arrives, strolling into the court as though he has not a care in the world, "Have I come at a bad time? I could leave again, if our fine Overseer finds speaking to me directly about my retainers so embarrassing."

Flensing Claw turns and glares with unmitigated malice at Juran, while the Earl, palpably bored until now, bursts into sudden laughter.

"Indeed!" he notes in his flowing bass tones, "After all, our dear Lemane hardly comes to me to complain every time your goblins prod at his territory! No, he kills them, puts the corpses up as a warning, and takes them down once they start to smell! Honestly, it's as if you've forgotten how we do things around here."

The Earl leans closer, breaking the relaxed slouch he had upon his throne.

"Or perhaps you fear antagonizing the Exalted? You are quite young, I suppose you've never clashed with their kind these last two centuries," there's a clear eagerness to his voice, with no small amount of malevolent glee, as he prods the goblin's pride.

Flensing Claw does not dare turn his hateful gaze upon the Earl, but he cannot stop shaking from the rage he clearly feels.

"Nothing?" the Earl's tone grows suddenly bored again, "Well, what of you, Lemane? I don't suppose you'd care to liven things up with an honor duel? Show these whelps how the old Solars would handle disrespect?"

The Earl doesn't seem particularly hopeful that Juran will do so, but the goblin's eyes widen in sudden fear, and Juran can see how his eyes focus on the iron tulwar at his hip.

Juran hums for a moment, considering the idea. He's not a terribly bloodthirsty man by nature... but if he lets this go, or if he makes the goblin grovel for his forgiveness, then Flensing Claw will take it out on his people.

"From what you've told me, your grace, I doubt I have half the imagination required," he says lightly, turning to pace into the centre of the chamber, "But then one can never reach new heights without a bit of practice."

He draws his sword in a single lazy movement, feeling the weight in his hand, and then glances over at the goblin.

"Well?" he says, smiling, "You know how this goes."

The Earl bursts into delighted laughter as Flensing Claw stares, frozen in horror for long moments, like he can't quite believe this is happening.

"You-" he manages, nearly drowned out by the booming cackles, "You can't-"

And then the goblin makes a bolt towards Juran, while clearly aiming for the door behind him, to the laughter of the Lorelei and wheezing chuffs of the injured Wight Commander.

"I think not," the Earl chortles, and raises a single mailed hand, open wide until he clenches, and then, though the goblin does not stop running, his progress is arrested in the middle of the room, a distortion in the surrounding air. A similar distortion lines a path between Juran and Flensing Claw.

"No escape," the Earl announces, "No surrender. The challenge is extended, the fight is to the death!"

The goblin stops fleeing as soon as he notices the distortion, and without hesitation turns to leap towards Juran, knowing that victory will be his only salvation!

Still smiling, Juran readies his blade... but desperation lends the goblin incredible speed

The goblin slashes at Juran before he knows it, but even as his blade rises to defend the feint is revealed by the clawed kick aimed at his midsection, covered though it is by the fur, the goblin clearly expects the blow to count!

Juran steps backward, yielding the ground like a dancer, his blade angled sharply to deflect the incoming assault. In his ears, he hears the echo of Five Lightning's sharp instruction.

Everyone fears getting cut, my lord. Defending yourself in a duel is as much about exploiting that fear as it is deflecting the blow

The kick is jerked sharply down, away from the blade, catching Juran's leg over the fur, and losing a bit of flesh as it stumbles into him, touching the flat of the blade with its shoulder and howling as the skin blackens.

The crowd jeers at the goblin, and the Earl claps loud enough shake the walls of a lesser structure.

"Oho! Vicious little thing, aren't you?" Juran calls, a touch breathless as he fends off the vicious assault, "Good! But let's see how well you can keep it up."

His Tulwar is a beautiful thing, curved and deadly, perfect for slicing through flesh and bone. Such blades suffer at times against foes in armour... but against iron, the goblin has no defence save speed, and Juran presses his assault mercilessly.

Flensing Claw pulls back desperately, and he is terribly quick, moving backwards far faster than any mortal could.

The goblin evades the deadly blade, at least, but in his panic Flensing Claw trips, falling to the ground and turning his back to Juran as he scrambles desperately to his feet, quick enough that Juran could not simply stab him while prone, but still left open for a new attack.

Juran is not a particularly athletic man, his body softened by fine living and only reluctantly tempered by Five Lightning's merciless drilling, nor does he possess the unnatural speed of the fae.

And yet his blows are always so fast the goblin can scarcely see them, so well placed only the most frantic of motions can evade them, polished and without flaw. Just a smooth, merciless advance that ends with his opponent dead upon the floor.

The blow carves the goblin's back open before he can turn around. Foul green blood sprays out, splattering the Manticore's hide and Juran's face both. The goblin collapses to the floor, howling in agony, skin blackened by the touch of iron. It manages to turn itself over, so it can look up to Juran with beady green eyes. Flensing Claw's face is hard to read, but the agony and terror is unmissable.

"Please, lord," the goblin begs him, "No more! No more, I beg you, spare me! Please, I don't want to die, please-!"

The Lorelei laughs, the Wight Commander chuffs, the Earl chortles merrily at the display.

"No?" Juran tilts his head, levelling the tulwar at him, "Perhaps you'd prefer a taste of your own craft, then. How was it you earned your name again?"

There's a twinge of guilt in his heart, a moment's hesitation... but he can't afford to relent now. Too much rests on this to have mercy for a monster... and a monster Flensing Claw most assuredly is. He's heard the stories, seen the marks left on the people sheltering under his banner.

Flensing Claw's expression twists from terror to sudden rage, and he lunges desperately, claws wide, to tear at Juran's face!

Juran simply twists, bringing up his free arm... and the goblin's claws skitter from fur and leather like it was the finest jade.

"Manticore hide," he says, his voice quiet and cold, "You spent so much time fussing over mortal children. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to what else we were doing."

The goblin stares, eyes wide, uncomprehending for a moment, before the hatred returns, amidst the continued laughter of the audience. He leaps once more, arms and legs shifted so that, no matter how Juran blocks, one limb at least will be able to strike, shrieking so loud and shrilly that Juran's teeth itch and some quiet, primal part of him feels the fear that the rest of him knows he needs not feel, so great is his advantage.

Juran doesn't make a sound in return. He does not need to scream, or shout, or yell an oath to the Dragons for their strength. This isn't a duel anymore, not really. It's an execution.

To the sound of the laughing crowd, Juran Heartsong swings his blade once more.

Flensing Claw's head hits the floor. His body bounces off Juran's armored chest limply, collapsing at his feet, green blood pooling out around them. The laughter stills, and there is a moment of silence.

And then the applause begins, the Earl's the loudest and most metallic as he stands.

Juran spins the sword with a flourish, pauses for a moment to inspect the edge for chips or remaining gore, then slides it back into the sheathe.

There's no glow of essence about him, no shining solar radiance, barely a few spots of sweat on his brow. He turns, and bows politely to the throne.

"My thanks for the sport, your grace," he says, gracious as ever, "My retainer is a fine practice partner, but no amount of mock sparring quite measures up to the real thing."

"Indeed!" the Earl rumbles in approval, "And a finely done bit of sport it was! Not even a glimmer of your anima! Such contempt! Such timing! There has not been a performance in here worthy of the name since Marxom boxed the ears of Wight who'd been skimming the slave shipments!"

"I should have placed a wager on you killing him before Calibration," the Lorelei sighs, "But you seemed one of those dreadfully compassionate sorts, I felt I had to play the odds."

The Wight Commander nods at Juran and chuffs in its strange way of speaking, nodding with respect to Juran.

"Where is Marxom," the Earl glances around a moment, "Someone tell him-ah, but he's attending you these days," the Earl shakes his head in faux sadness, before cheering up again, "Seeming Dreams," he addresses the Wight, "Congratulations, you're the new Revee! Clean up the ex-Overseer's body, and find a mop for the blood! And you, Juran, come closer! You have earned the fullness of my attention!"

The Earl phrases the promotion in much the way someone else might declare "You're the new victim!" or, perhaps, "the new dupe".

The Lorelei rolls her eyes, but does not object, and instead watches with satisfaction that someone else was saddled with the bothersome manual labor.

"Thank you, your grace," Juran smiles, bowing his head in acknowledgement as he approaches, "In truth, I can't claim my business is too exciting - only two things of note."

He glances around at the Wight - Seeming Dreams, that was it - and nods. "The first might well concern our new Reeve as well. I've completed the first of my trade voyages, successful though not terribly exciting. I can have the relevant numbers forwarded later, if you'd care for them. The only point of interest is in the number of people who saw me trading jade and gossamer and started making plans for their own voyages hither."

He shrugs easily. "I've a short list of those with whom I am actually doing business, and they'll be carrying a letter I signed as well if they've any sense. Anyone else turning up claiming I invited them is lying."

Seeming Dreams pauses a moment as he lifts the goblin's body, seeming to focus a great deal before speaking.

Heard. And understood. Liars. Will be eaten.

The words are not entirely verbal, rather, Juran hears them as an unfolding screech within his own mind, as the Wight continues to make the strange chuffing noises that are all it seems to be able to produce aloud.

"Naturally," Juran nods, grimacing slightly at the thought. He hopes nobody is that stupid, but if life has taught him anything, it is that someone always is.

"The second is likewise simple, your grace," he continues after a moment, "I'd like to request one of those scarecrows, the ones that used to be field gods, for my farm."

The Earl is silent a moment as he digests that.

"...I confess, that was not on my list of expected complaints or requests," he admits, sitting back down in his throne, "May I ask why?"

The request is politely curious, though Juran can tell there are other emotions beneath it.

He can't tell what those emotions are in the brief moment of consideration, nor afford to hesitate or stall, and so Juran presses on.

"Butterfly is working on making some... shears, for lack of a better word, though I'm sure she'd be upset to hear me describe them so plainly," he says easily, as if it is no great secret, "Tools she believes will be able to prise apart the workings of glamour and gossamer from the flesh and spirit they were wrought upon. Before she moves ahead with the project, however, she needs to test her work."

The Earl leans back, as if unsurprised.

"I had wondered when your compassion would begin becoming a problem," he sighs dramatically, "I certainly prefer this to you suddenly declaring war on the Duchess' legion of cyclopes. Though I'm sure she'll introduce you to them sooner or later," he mutters darkly, before turning his attention back to the matter at hand, "The field gods are of little use for any purpose but what we inflicted on them, I hope you know. The fields no longer grow at their command, but rather our own. They have suffered for centuries, there is likely little left of the beings they once were, even if freed from their nightmare. It will profit you nothing to free them, and as most of them do not live in my domain, I would have no power to aid you, and would not wage an unwinnable war in compassion's name, in any case."

He stares Juran down with his sightless helmed face.

"Do you still wish to waste the favor that duel earned you on the behalf of a single broken spirit?"

"I am an ambitious man, your grace, one who seeks the power to halt the blade of a hegemon," Juran replies, unashamed even as he inclines his head to acknowledge the point, "Perhaps you are right, and I shall do all I can and fall short at the post... but I would still like to make the attempt."

"So be it," the Earl shrugs, as if it were of no consequence, "You've surveyed the land extensively. Go to the nearest farm and take the field god, if you can. It will certainly struggle, and I will not make the trip myself to command it to still and leave my home vulnerable to infiltration. If you've any talent for song, I strongly suggest you use it. They're quite susceptible to lullabies. If you take more than one, though, I will take umbrage," and here the Earl's tone becomes one of warning, "I trust in your pragmatism, and the friendship we share. Do not throw that aside for beings you do not even know that you can save."

"My thanks, your Grace," Juran says, bowing, "And worry not - I value our friendship greatly, and would not dream of compromising it so lightly."

"See that you don't," the Earl says seriously, "Now. Was there anything else you wished to speak of, or must I once more endure Flaming Ire's requests for a combat command and a list of her fine deeds and why surely a century is sufficient that I forgive her assassination attempts?"

He stares pointedly at the Lorelei as he speaks, and to her credit she maintains her posture, staring him down unflinchingly, though, Juran can see, with care not to show any form of overt disrespect. Clearly someone who knows the Earl's moods well.

"Alas, I had but the two matters, and both have been attended to," Juran says with an apologetic shrug, stepping to the side, "and so the business of the day must go on."

He does not leave immediately, for to treat the court so lightly would be disrespectful, but he contents himself with observing until it is done.

And so Flaming Ire steps forward, as the Earl sighs heavily, and once he is done begins a long list of accomplishments, many impressive, many horrifying, while the Earl listens with his head in one massive hand, occasionally glancing at Juran with a tangible air of Do you see what I must put up with? as the Lorelei takes a barrister's approach to conveying why four tiny murder attempts should clearly be forgiven.

 

[Kaiya]

The Port of Pravance is surrounded by farmland, once divided into many small fields run by the families which had lived for generations upon the land. Now, a handful of truly vast fields of wheat, many hectacres across, and, especially as Resplendent Wood arrives, as it has, grow overtall and nigh-unmanageable. The vast stalks cast shadows on the roads of Pravance, the unnaturally clear paths which run between the fields and through to the grasslands beyond. Few travelers walk the roads of Pravance, but they never find the dirt paths overgrown, nor the vast wheat fields overstepping their boundaries. From within those fields, however, the outside can be terribly hard to find most of the year, with the stalks blocking vision and extending in all directions around. The life of the mortals who maintain these fields is difficult, as Juran has seen, spending their days amidst the stocks, plucking the weeds and pest insects that grow at their bases, getting lost for extended periods within the fields, wielding bronze farm tools against the larger forms of mutant pest life.

And, of course, praying to the horrors that stock the fields that their paths do not cross. The goblins lurk amidst the stalks of wheat, ready to punish any who use the shade and solitude of the depths of the fields to hide or rest, but it is the Field Guardians these mortals fear more. The towering scarecrow monsters, lips sewn shut and eyelids sewn open, kept tall and rigid by ironwood poles sewn by gossamer into their spines to keep them rooted in the material. Their great scythes, once iron, now a bronze-gossamer alloy, strike pest birds from the sky and slash at any who come too close, and an aura of terrible dread surrounds them, made worse by the agonized keening the guardians make as they walk. The stalks part silently for them, and their steps make no sounds, it is only the pained, strangled wailing that foretells their approach, and warns the field slaves to run as far and fast away from them as can be managed.

Finding the field gods in the vast would ordinarily be a matter of great difficulty. One would have to dive forth into the fields, hunting for a being for whom the wheat poses no obstacle, deal with the vermin which gnaw at the stalks of the plants, and navigate with no clear guidance or direction. But the gods are tall, and their passing parts the fields around them, making their location clear. This is how the fae track the gods, should they need to move them, with their mutant bird spies, clearing a section of field ahead of the god, and waiting to trap them.

Via Starless Sky and Butterfly, Juran has a very similar option available to him.

Butterfly was high in the air, diaphanous wings spread from her back, and scattered light and stray glyphs as she flew. It was a new development for her, after spending some time in meditation and trying to seek a calm mental state. She had found she could grow wings from her back.

This necessitated a wardrobe change. She had begun to wear backless clothing since then, though thankfully she was able to move the seams for her Cloak of Serene Elements and not freeze in the colder air above. She held her bow in her hand, using it as a signal to alert those on the ground to the motion of the Field God.

Juran, meanwhile, waits beneath the patient eye of Five Lightning, trusting in his retainer to protect him should this all go horribly wrong. He has a wagon prepared nearby, and Butterfly's own summoned demon (familiar?) to clear the necessary grain to have a place to work, but he still needs to handle actually subduing the tormented spirit and that... will not be easy.

Starless Sky, manifesting a number of bladed limbs, scythes and swords and sickles, rapidly cleared sufficient space to deny easy cover and allow Juran and Five Lightning room to maneuver. Five Lightning is wielding a hammer in place of her usual bladed weapons, hoping to not wound the god more than is necessary, and clearly tense. Starless Sky waits a dozen paces off, their own blunted limbs ready, their mist swirling around them. Above, Butterfly can confirm that the god will arrive momentarily, the wheat parting swiftly and silently in the direction of the cleared zone by the road, other spots of parting grain visible to her in the distance, where the other field gods patron their own way. A wagon waits on the road behind Juran, sized enough to carry even a field god.

"Can't say I'm looking forward to this," Five Lighting says quietly, breaking a period of silence as they wait for the spirit to arrive, staring at the wall of grain, "Field guardians can be terrors even before they're driven mad by faeries."

She glances over at Starless Sky for a moment.

"We've got good company for it, at least."

Butterfly descended a little bit as the Field God approached the target ambush site. She readied her bow. It wasn't nonlethal, so she was going to focus on trying to disorientate and trip the field god, focusing on support.

"I cannot say I am looking forward to it either," Juran replies evenly, focusing on staying calm, "But I swore to do all I could, and even if I had not, such horrors should not be allowed to stand."

A low, agonized sound begins to fill the air. A strangled wail of unearthly misery, setting goosebumps all over their skin. In both Juran and Five Lightning, fear begins to well up, a nameless, awful dread, a certainty of pain and horror to come, enough to leave their limbs weakened and their guts twisted. High in the air, Butterfly can feel a shiver of fear run over her, the noise vibrating in her skin, her invulnerable skin having no hair to stand on end, but making an effort regardless. The same dreadful certainty reaches her. That pain and horror awaits, that there is nothing she can do but suffer, an urge to run and flee, and a sense of awful futility with it, that no distance could possibly be far enough.

For a moment Juran blanches... then he exhales, focusing himself. He has committed himself to this course of action by oath, and by faith he is bound to help the people here where he can. How can he do such things if he allows terror to take him now? How can he help if he is too busy quivering in fear and fleeing for his life?

No. He must stand.

Butterfly felt her heart thudding in her chest. This was it. Her first combat. She could feel her hands shake, as her grip on her bow went too tense. She had to focus though. Her friends needed her to stay in the fight, she had to show them that she wasn't useless to bring with. To prove that she was worth their time.

Five Lightning grits her teeth, and takes a martial stance, stepping forward and readying her hammer to strike. Her breathing quickens, but deliberately, her eyes flash with lightning as she calls upon the storm in her blood. The Thunderbirds are not gods of peace or mean spirits who must flee their betters. They are war gods in their own rights, spirits of storm and lightning. Her heart pounds in her chest, and roars like thunder in her ears. She can imagine the sound of her father's war drums as lightning split the Nemerian skies and the spirit courts war amidst the raging of the Storm Serpent, called to fight by its rage and spite.

Peace is not for her, and she is right where she belongs.

Starless Sky is silent, feeling the sensation of terror wash over them, stirring in place, but unmoved. They have felt worse auras, before, they have known greater terrors, but never before had they had such a reason to stand firm. They will not be the one to break here.

The field god's aura of horror does not lessen, but it feels easier to bear, among friends and with cause to stand firm and fight. And then, very suddenly, the wall of golden grain parts, and a great shadow leaps out with unnatural quickness, sweeping a vast scythe about, howling in wordless horror, and the battle is joined!

Standing poised in the field, sword in hand and hand upraised, Juran begins to sing.

There's nothing special about the words, nothing inspired about the tune. It is a simple melody, a soft and gentle lullaby, passed down from parent to child in his home for many generations. A promise of peace and rest, of a brighter tomorrow and pleasant dreams, a promise that no matter how dark the day or how deep your fears, the future can yet be better.

His parents sung it to him as a babe when he wept for hunger, and then again as a young man when he raged at the hand that fate had dealt them. Now he sings it today, to bring peace to a wounded heart.

The god's approach wavers. The speed of it slows, the upswing of the great scythe is not so blindingly quick. The horror keening it makes changes in tone, there's a confusion to it, as the music soothes the endless nightmare it lives in.

And then the god rallies, and a great slash swings wind, the god's limbs stretching like stalks grown too high, the blade itself growing longer and wider at it strikes at all of Juran, Five Lightning, and Starless Sky!

Starless Sky meets the great blow with three flashing bladed limbs, sparks striking off the iron edges Butterfly endowed them with, as Five Lightning leaps back almost as the strike begins, bringing her hammer down as she does so, brutally bashing the edge away from herself, her storm's blood and hundreds of hours of practice honing her reflexes to near-superhuman levels.

Juran for his part relies on the efforts of his allies, for the blow is already robbed of much of its force and direction by the time it reaches him, and he can swat it away with relative ease.

He doesn't allow the song to waver, though he is distantly aware that perhaps he should have worked more on his breath control before attempting to sing and battle at the same time.

Starless Sky darts forward, mists swirling as the field god's limbs return to their usual size and the blades shrink once more.

A number of limbs strike out, a hammer, a tetsubo, a sweeping staff, blows aimed to trip up, confuse, disorient, care taken to deal no lasting injury to the maimed spirit before it.

Starless Sky has never been in such a battle, a true mission of mercy, but they are not a stranger to preferring not to harm a being who has no choice but to be in the battle it has found itself in.

Five Lightning is quick to follow up, running in Starless Sky's wake and catching the field god from the rear as it sweeps the scythe around, trying to catch the Tomescu's limbs with the blade and failing in the face of far superior speed. She sweeps low, striking at the field god's ankle, hoping that it is as resilient as she expects, but willing to maim it if it means Juran doesn't face another blow like the one it had initially strike with.

The blow lands, but the field god's flesh is indeed stronger than any mortal being's, there is no joint to shatter, only thick, firm roots. The blow hurts, nonetheless, and the field god stumbles, its footing interrupted, and turns to shriek at Five Lightning!

Five Lightning scrambles back suddenly, heartrate spiking as mortal terror drives into her brain like a steel blade, she swipes wildly in front of her as she stumbles back, falling prone and blinded by terror.

Butterfly had been watching, waiting, until the moment felt right. She had never been in combat, but she was not unfamiliar with willing the arrow to the target. An opening revealed itself to her, as Five Lighting fled back.

Butterfly tucked her wings close, dropping like a rock. She felt her stomach roll, but she had to get closer in order to capitalize on the work her allies were doing. She flared her wings, an explosion of light, as her caste mark revealed itself upon her forehead, and bronze flames gathered upon her flesh and bow. She drew, and fired, in one smooth motion.

The arrow strikes the god in the shin, and instead of punching through it knocks the spirit's foot from under it, sending it crashing suddenly to the ground, unable to reach out and catch itself with hands sewn to the scythe it wields.

Butterfly breathed out, her anima burning merrily. Her heart beat slowed, as tension began to leave her. This was not combat for her, now. This was target practice. Her sight narrowed on the field god. She had brought it down, now to keep it there.

Her hand went for her quiver, fingers briefly touching the blunted arrows she had made. Those fingers moved on, grabbing her sharp tipped arrows. In her mind, she formed her desires. These arrows would lock down the target, making it difficult for it to stand. Not enough to end the threat entirely, but it would keep it in place.

Several arrows dart out, slamming into the earth, and pinning the field god down by its clothing, such as they were.

The thick, heavy sackcloth, woven by goblin slaves, not of gossamer but of some coarser, harsher material, is hard to pierce, but harder to pull up from. Butterflies arrows glow golden as they dig deep into the ground, through a soft upper layer and into the harder soil beneath. With its hands bound to the scythe and the pole keeping it rigid, the god struggles to pull free, howling in rage more than pain as it seeks the leverage to free itself!

"Calm yourself, my friend," Juran says, hand outstretched in entreaty, face open and warm, "We mean you no harm. Come, set down your burdens, and let us soothe your pain. Let us help you."

With the last lingering notes of the lullaby on the air, his words have no strength, no blazing conviction. There is only the soft and earnest desire to help, to make this right.

The field god stares up at Juran. The darkened skin of its face, a sickly black reminiscent of blood poisoning, is in contrast to the beautiful amber of its terrorized irises, the same color of the field it once protected and now haunts. Juran can see the shimmering pink strands holding blackened, bloodied lips shut, how the process that crippled it managed to invite infection even into divine flesh. He can see the mad horror in its eyes, the distance it is from him, from sanity.

How far from reality the nightmare it lives must be. But something of his words land home, as it stares up at him, at the Caste Mark shining brightly on his head, it recognizes something, perhaps in his words, perhaps in the lingering notes of song, perhaps in the mark the Sun left upon his brow, and he can see how the field god relaxes, the murderous panic in its limbs fading. It nods, the first gesture of sanity from it that he has seen, the first recognition of another person any of the ones he saw during his survey of response ever showed, and it settles down, resting its face on the warm soil. It cannot relax its grip on its weapon, swollen hands tightly sewn to the haft, but it at least does not move to lift it.

Five Lightning takes a moment to climb to her feet, as this exchange occurs, the panic dying down and leaving her winded and shaken, but more or less okay. Starless Sky floats over to the Guardian, and speaks a handful of soothing words in Old Realm, hovering gently by its side.

Butterfly, a burning beacon in the sky, remained floating, but lowered her bow. She sighed in relief.

"Thank you," Juran says softly to the field god, before gesturing to the others, "Let's get you somewhere we can help."

Butterfly headed toward where Aleu was, to pick her up and bring her to help load the Field God into the wagon they brought. Not that Butterfly could lift all that much.

Starless is able to flow under the field god once it is lifted a bit by Five Lightning and Juran, and make the process of carrying it far easier. It's somewhat difficult to load the lanky spirit into the wagon, but between all present it is manageable.

Five Lightning looks distinctly unsettled as they do so, but only speaks once the god is loaded up.

"...did you see the wounds on the hands and lips?" she asks Juran, keeping her voice low, so only Juran and Butterfly, if she stands near them, can hear, wary of upsetting the god by speaking of its injuries.

Butterfly nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. Now that she was on the ground, she let her wings slide into her back, the glyphs and lines rejoining the rest on her flesh.

"I'll fix it," she said quietly.

"I saw, though any greater significance escapes me," Juran says with a frown

"The pus," Five Lightning emphasizes, "The-the blackened wounds. Like the flesh is going bad. I've seen wounds like it, but only ever in mortals. Godly flesh doesn't go bad like that."

"Hmm. Poison, perhaps?" Juran rubs his jaw in thought, "If fae magics and gossamer can rot godflesh, then perhaps there is a connection to... well, the other case we saw."

He doesn't want to name the Gemlord in anything save privacy, after all.

"Well, hopefully Butterfly's ministrations will tell us more."

Five Lightning nods, still unsettled, glancing at the field god once more and shuddering, before walking around to the front of the wagon, getting ready to ride it back to their own lands.

 

[Kaiya]

It was early in the day. Aleu was outside, collecting honey from some of the wild hives she had found. The bees were expressive today, eager to begin their work, and already they were taking flight enough for her to record their patterns in her notebook. Butterfly was sleeping in today, having worked herself to exhaustion working on that daiklave. Aleu didn't like how caught up in Dreams Butterfly was, but the last time Aleu brought the reading about it up, Butterfly hadn't left her workshop for two whole days. Suggesting Butterfly destroy the daiklave ingredients had been a bad idea. Maybe she should ask Juran to deal with that. He had a clever voice, and could convince Butterfly that the sword for Marxom was a bad idea.

Aleu sat down under the hive, drawing a spread from her deck and comparing the results to what the bees said. She wanted to know what to do about Butterfly, and if getting someone involved was a good idea, then who.

She blinked. This was a remarkably positive reading, but vague. If the bees were correct, then Butterfly was well on her way to having her bestest day ever, and with someone. She held up Sun & Moon, Moon facing. The bees were scattered, implying the moon had cast aside their cloud veils.

Aleu frowned, "who are you?"

---

Aleu continued her investigation over a matter of days. She consulted the clouds, tea leaves, tortoise shells, her cards, and some dice she found in Juran's ship. She even traded some failed mead to one of the farmers working for Juran, in return for letting her cut open a chicken to view its liver. She was beginning to build a more complete picture of what was in store for Butterfly. The problem preventing this event from being a certainty was, unfortunately, Butterfly.

It was going to be a chance thing, and even if Butterfly managed to reach her fated new friend, there were too many ways for the meeting to end less than ideally. She was skittish, and if Aleu even mentioned what her divinations said here, there was a strong possibility that Butterfly would become too fearful and hide herself.

Thankfully, she had Aleu.

"I'm done with this now," she said to the farmer, picking up the chicken corpse and shoving it into his hands, "it was very helpful to me."

"I'm… glad?" said the farmer, glancing down at her bloody form. The sight of a small child gleefully tearing their way into a chicken and getting blood everywhere wouldn't be good for his dreams.

"Mhm! Enjoy the honey-water," she said as she began heading back to her home, shaking her hands lightly to get some more of the blood drops off. The book Butterfly gave her didn't say there was so much blood in a chicken so she didn't come quite as prepared as she should have been. Still, it had confirmed her suspicions, she needed to take drastic measures in order to help her friend achieve her bestest day ever.

---

"Hey! Kid! You're not supposed to be out by yourself!"

Aleu looked up from the neat lichen pattern she had found. She had gotten distracted by it while trying to find the river, long enough for one of the militia patrols to have found her. There were three of them, armed with iron, and armored with jackets. One of them was dragging a dead goblin behind them on a rope.

"I'm looking for the river for Butterfly," she said when they approached.

The man who spoke frowned and squinted at her, "You're that kid that follows Lady Butterfly around aren't you?"

"Yes, that's me. I'm Aleu! Can you show me where the river is? The cards said that water will make Butterfly really happy, so I wanted to get some," Aleu held up the bucket, partially filled with sand and shiny rocks she had found.

"Maybe you should come with us, and you can use the spring that Lady Butterfly made," the lead man suggested, but Aleu was already shaking her head.

"No, that doesn't count. It's water Butterfly made," she got up, waving the bucket.

The man sighed, "okay, but stay close to us, alright? It's close, but there are still goblins about. Ren, tie up that corpse here, this spot will be fine."

Not long after, they departed for the river, with Aleu excitedly talking about the items she had found on the way.

---

Butterfly was already hard at work when Aleu returned, a bucket full of muddy water in hand. Butterfly moved the blade from her anvil back to the prismatic fire at the heart of the wyld forge.

"Aleu," she smiled, happy to see her friend despite the quietness of her voice, "I wondered where you were. Did you have fun?"

"Yep! I brought you something," Aleu confirmed, lifting up the bucket and putting it on a nearby work table, next to one of the diagrams of a Field God. Butterfly walked over to peer inside.

"River water?"

"Yep,and some pretty rocks. Have fun!" Aleu waved, then turned to leave the workshop.

Butterfly watched her go, utterly puzzled.

---

Aleu wasn't sure why Butterfly was supposed to be really happy about the water, but that's what her divinations said. At least the next few bits of her preparations were clearer.

She was in Butterfly's room, searching through the chest that Butterfly kept her notes in. It had been locked, but Aleu shoved her finger in and wiggled it around until the lock opened. She had considered telling Butterfly that the lock was bad, but then she'd make one herself and then Aleu would need to find where she kept the key. That'd make what she was doing so much harder.

With a noise of success, she pulled out the page she was looking for. The route Butterfly had planned for her upcoming survey of Juran's territory. Aleu looked it over, happy that it was in Old Realm, but to her great dismay, Butterfly was starting in the entirely wrong direction! She was going west first, not south! She had to go south-east or she would be too late to meet the person that would give her the bestest day.

This was problematic. Though the notes were in a language Aleu could read, the little mez couldn't forge Butterfly's handwriting with enough accuracy to fool Butterfly. It wasn't as simple as changing the direction, she had to redesign the entire flight plan so that it made sense to go south-east first, and it needed to make enough logical sense that Butterfly would just think she misremembered.

Aleu would have felt bad about this, if it weren't for how gloomy she knew Butterfly would be if this failed to go correctly.

She grabbed a blank paper, writing down the alternative flight plan. Then, grabbing both her sheet and the true flight plan, she locked the chest and exited the room. She had a plan, even though she didn't like it.

---

"Marxom."

The fae didn't look up at Aleu from his paperwork. Butterfly had requested a review of the moonsilver stocks, since she thought she had less than she did. So he was preparing a report.

"Marxom," Aleu repeated, determined.

Marxom continued to write, though a frown had crept onto his face. His accounting had slowed though.

"Marxom," Aleu said for a third time.

"Little Aleu, I do not have time to play your card games," he said, putting down his pen.

"I'm not here for that, I need you to change the handwriting of this sheet," she put down the altered flight plan, "to match this one."
She set Butterfly's original plan next to it.

"No," he went back to writing. Aleu puffed up her cheeks in a pout.

"You're not going to like what happens if you don't."

"Little demon, you do not scare me," he continued writing, grabbing another sheet of paper and continuing upon it.

"I don't need to. If you don't change the handwriting, Butterfly is going to get clingy." Aleu put her hands down on either side of the sheets, trying to lean over the desk. Unfortunately, she'd have needed a stool to have any appreciable stature.

He pursed his lips and his eye twitched as he missed a word, then tossed aside the entire page. He grabbed another page and began again.

Aleu went for the kill, "Very clingy. You'd barely get anything done. She'd be super sad and keep asking you to say nice things about her and all the paperwork will. Build. Up. Also your shiny sword will get delayed."

He sighed, grabbing the flight plan sheets, "fine. Fine. I'll do it."

Aleu grinned.

---

Starless Sky was moving boulders outside the village when Aleu found them.The boulders were head height to her, arranged in a spiral of over two dozen. They had been going at it for some time, gathering the boulders out of the forest or from fields.

"Friend Aleu," they greeted, friendly, "you have been busy of late. What has caught your focus, to put in so much effort?"

"Starless," she greeted back, enthusiastic, "I have been divining, come look."

She held out her notebook, open, to her notes on what she had discovered of the future.

Starless Sky floated over, reaching out to take the book. They glanced over it, checking the following pages until they had gone through all her divinations of Butterfly's bestest day.

"I see, and you need someone to hide all of her non-blue clothing," they said, not questioning the odd request.

"Yeah, there's too much for me to carry myself, and I need somewhere to hide it. You can fly the clothes to Juran's boat in the middle of the night."

"Your notes say you need to take the cloak too. She will miss it once the morning comes," Starless pointed out, "she would not take such a theft lightly."

"Ah, I hadn't worked out that problem yet," Aleu frowned, arms crossed in thought.

"I had seen a patch of wild pumpkins earlier this week," Starless began, watching Aleu carefully.

"Pumpkins?! Where?!" She had to get her pumpkin smashing rock. It was the only way.

"I can show you. However, it is a fair distance, and will require flying. Perhaps you should ask Butterfly to borrow her cloak."

Aleu blinked, "and in doing so, I have a reason for why we're both away. Perfect!"

"Exactly, and you will have eliminated another patch of vicious pumpkins," for some reason Starless's voice was teasing. Though Aleu didn't know why. Evil pumpkins were no joking matter.

 

[Kaiya]

The return to Juran's lands is a long and somewhat stressful trip, watching over the restless, agonized god. It doesn't resist, thankfully, when the blade is removed from the scythe and the haft cut down, to remove the potential for a murderous rampage, should the sanity it seems to be clutching at prove only temporary, but the aura of fear and the raw strength of the spirit is still worth fearing.

Thankfully, the spirits silence holds until they reach the squat, sturdy building Butterfly had built, hopefully sufficient to hold the spirit, with thick wooden walls and iron-paneled doors and solid iron hinges, prayers for peace and calm inscribed into the structure at various points. The spirit cannot sit down, but when led within, it manages to find a somewhat comfortable position on the straw bedding arranged for it, and it seems to manage to fall to something like sleep. Without the aura of horror flaring around it, exhaustion is clear in its body language.

With the door shut and locked, Marxom at last shows his face, having been avoiding the presence of the spirit at Juran's earlier command. He seems to almost materialize ten paces back, waiting patiently at attention once Juran turns from the door.

"It is good to see you are uninjured," he greets, not stepping closer, but his voice carrying easily, an approving smile on his face, "I confess, I expected more drama to come of it, but perhaps the spirits merely loathe me specifically. They are ever determined to make a proper war of it, when the time comes that one needs relocating."

"Small wonder, if you had any hand in making it what it is now," Juran says with a certain dry humour, a thin mask over his own far more complex feelings. "My people tell stories of spirit-held grudges that long outlast the familial lines of those who first trespassed against them. When all else is lost, hate yet remains."

He looks back over his shoulder for a moment, at the sealed door, and shakes his head. "A terrifying thing, all told. The screams, the scythe, the look in its eyes... I'd be hard pressed to think of a more primal vision of fear."

Marxom smiles, an expression of satisfied pride.

"Thank you," he says, bowing modestly, "I worked quite hard on them. Not alone, admittedly, but it was I who realized that ironwood and white jade could be used with gossamer to anchor them into a nightmare made flesh. It pleases me that you can appreciate the craftwork. Most mortals tend to stick to condemnation."

He looks at the containment hut, the smile of serene pride on his face echoing the one he had when they first met, as he led them through Pravance, the satisfaction of a job well-done as clear in him now as it was then.

"Oh, I have plenty of those as well," Juran says, shaking his head, and for a moment he looks almost tired. "One learns the appreciate the artistry of an atrocity, just as one can acknowledge the quality of a foe. Life beneath Prasad taught my people that much."

Marxom's approving smile grows.

"It is always deeply refreshing to speak to you," he says, clearly quite pleased, "You hold a mortal perspective, but are willing to entertain and consider other viewpoints, even those which offend you, and you grow wiser and more dangerous for having done so. It is a rare Exalt who is willing to hold such an open mind, and even rarer among the Solars. Indeed, I have said words quite similar to yours to a Prasadi Exalt, some half a century back. It was the end of our civil conversation, as he challenged me to a duel at once."

Marxom laughs as he continues.

"I barely escaped with my life!"

Juran snorts at that, bleakly amused.

"The Nermaia were so proud, once, inflexible in our virtue. We cleaved to absolute truth and the mysteries revealed to us in the flame, and had neither time or need for anything else," he says, a touch wistfully, "And then Prasad came. To be broken on the battlefield was one thing, for we had won and lost before, but the dragons did not stop there. They broke us in spirit, shattered our people into splinters and plucked the choicest fragments from among the wreckage to weave into their own people, another verse in the song of the Empire."

He shakes his head, frowning distantly towards the west. "I am an Immaculate, a servant of the Pure Way, but that is a Prasadi faith, pressed upon the Nermaia like a sword into yielding flesh. I should hate it, reject it, and yet I cannot tell you now who I would be without it. Perhaps that is where my sense of perspective arises."

"Believe it or not," Marxom says, and something like sympathy enters his voice, "I quite understand. Once, I was defined by pride, and pride alone. I could not fathom the importance of anything else," and there is a smile on his face, but it is a fixed expression, something he wears rather than the truth of his emotions, "And now I am the weakest of my kind. My purpose in life to fulfill the petty needs of a petty lord in a small corner of a great endeavor. I know what it is, to be humiliated, and I know what it is, to find new purpose in the ashes of all you once held."

"Or to reclaim some legacy of what was lost?" Juran says mildly, "With a sword forged by Solar artifice, perhaps. A blade made of your own dreams, unique in all the world."

It is perhaps a bad idea to reveal what he suspects so readily, but he is tired and his soul is weary and he cannot bring himself to prevaricate.

A smile, on Marxom's face, no shame, and a bit of pride.

"I have not yet learned what that feels like," he corrects gently, "But, I will not lie," and a flicker of amusement at the little joke, Raksha cannot tell overt falsehoods, "I am quite looking forward to that part."

That, at least, is honest. And the sympathy was...not false, at least. There was as much sympathy there as a being like Marxom is capable of feeling, though Juran's honed eyes and ears can tell that what he holds is more a sense of kinship than the empathy of one man to another. True empathy may be beyond Marxom, or perhaps he simply can't muster it here, but he sees himself in Juran, and holds no sorrow for his pain.

Marxom's pain, though, is considerable.

An aching, burning thing, hidden behind still features and a bland heartbeat, visible only in microexpressions and how he holds his eyes, tells inherited from so long amongst humans. It is a pain Juran recognizes well, it is one he cannot help but empathize with. Humiliation, outrage, burning resentment, and a feeling of perpetual and abject helplessness.

Marxom is glad that Juran feels the same pain, because it means Marxom is not alone with his own, amongst a nation of monsters who only rarely can feel such things, and then often only in passing.

The Fae truly cannot lie, Marxom understands exactly how Juran feels about Prasad.

"Mm. Well, I should be the greatest hypocrite imaginable to condemn your anticipation," Juran says thoughtfully, his dark eyes reading that truth in Marxom's nature as if it were writ plain upon his face. "I have dreamed of what I might do, what my people might be if freed from Prasad's yoke, and came here in search of the power to see it done. Perhaps we shall find out together."

He pauses there, turning his thoughts inwards. Is he truly empathising with one of the Fae? To his own surprise, he finds that he is, in a way utterly devoid of the weight and constraint of the Earl's oath-sworn friendship. How strange.

"Speaking of artistry, and atrocity for that matter, I find myself wondering... well, why," he says a moment later, pushing the thought aside. "To remake the field gods so is, as you said yourself, no small work of craft. I thought at first they were mere overseers, but there are a thousand easier ways to keep mere slaves in line."

Marxom offers a smile in return to Juran's words of fellow-feeling, and the smile is almost perfect, exactly the expression that should come from the recognition of shared pain. But Juran can see that it is a learned thing, a technique employed. Something is missing inside him, and he cannot quite reach out and meet Juran's pain in truth. Perhaps if he could, he would make a point of doing so.

"To make more goblins, of course," Marxom answers, his tone mildly surprised that Juran hadn't known this, even as the pantomime of recognition going unsaid as the conversation continues on so is done so very close to perfectly, "The attrition amongst their kind is terrible, and usually we must wipe out human settlements in the middlemarches to breed them in great numbers. We needed to create the conditions in which they would spawn within Creation, and we needed to do so without damaging the mortal population too terribly. The field gods were the ideal solution. Powerful guardians which can serve as weapons of war in their own right, which in peacetimes create the conditions from which goblins are born, ensuring we always have a proper army, no matter how many senseless wars we wage amongst ourselves," and his expression flickers briefly to anger here, as he speaks of the warring the fae do amongst themselves.

"...ah. And Goblins are only born from such fear, then?" Juran says, his heart sinking.

"They are born of and feed upon mortal terror and lingering horror," Marxom confirms, a slight twitch to his lips, "I'm surprised you did not know. I suppose mortals don't tend to ask themselves why we would butcher small border communities over long weeks. We must seem quite strange to you."

"That you feed on us is well known; raids for the sake of food and material gain are an understandable motive. Yet we have other ways of satisfying those needs, a craft that gave rise to Caravaneers such as I," Juran muses, frowning darkly, "I had assumed that this was a similar case, that you merely preferred fear and terror, rather than relying upon it. And... yes, of course. While the goblins make up the majority of the Earl's forces, a threat to this system is a direct threat to his military strength."

Juran chews his lip for a long moment, lost in thought. He had planned to leverage his successful trading missions into gaining greater power and authority over the mortals of Pravance, and from there work to improve their conditions and diversify the emotions that fed their overlords, but now.... now he needs a different plan. And, if he is to persuade the Earl to release all of the field gods and so fulfill his oath, an alternative.

Damnation.

"In fairness, some of us do prefer that flavor," Marxom allows, continuing the conversation as if he were oblivious to Juran's distraction, or perhaps he simply finds it irrelevant, "And those who lead vast goblin armies tend to self-select for it, to a degree. I myself find the simple sensation of stress to be most soothing. Terror is too...sharp. It energizes me unpleasantly. Though I confess that I am partially motivated by my loathing of long trips into the country side to import new mortals to the city when they become too dream-eaten to play their roles, so I prefer emotions that are easy to cultivate broadly and draw from many people at once. It saves me a great deal of time and effort, over the decades."

"...I'm afraid I don't have nearly the context to sympathise," Juran says, a touch bemused, "But... knowing this, the whole system here makes far more sense. I will need to adjust my plans to take it into account, but better to have learned in advance than by blundering straight into a misjudgment."

He pauses, frowning. "I am surprised the Earl allowed me to slay Flensing Claw, if the goblins and the system to support them are so critical. Indeed, he outright encouraged it. Was the overseer easily replaceable?"

Marxom laughs bitterly.

"No," he replies with equal bitterness, "No, he was not. Flensing Claw had a unique genius among goblins, and a strong grasp for the mindsets of many different species. He was by far the most able field commander the Earl has other than himself. But what are concerns of wars that might be lost, territory taken by the enemy, compared to momentary irritation and immediate boredom?" Marxom sweeps his arms out sarcastically.

"He was a fool not to end the duel before the kill," the faery knight concludes bluntly, "And I would have done so on your behalf, had I been present."

Juran nods slowly, thinking back to that scene in the throne room, when Flensing Claw begged for mercy. Had he known then what he knows now, would he have acted differently? Perhaps... and yet perhaps not. There are merits to be found in removing all alternative to one's own command and authority, in eliminating threats to one's people before they can strike. And, he will admit in the privacy of his mind, there was a satisfaction in punishing such a cruel and vicious creature for its deeds.

"And now he must rely on Butterfly and I, to work the miracles necessary to reverse his poor position," he says at last, thoughtfully, "Yet we are not the Solars of old. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, if our enemies have their way."

"Quite," Marxom says drily, "If only he had listened to me, while he still had my fealty," and a twitch to his lips and of his brow, a blend of amusement and frustration, "On which note, I must take my leave. I left a number of your goblins impaled over a few matters of discipline, and I should free them before the hemorrhaging does them in."

He bows again to Juran, a simple one of respect this time.

"It was, as always, a pleasure to speak with you."

And then the faery knight is striding away, off towards the goblin encampment by the edges of his lands, and Juran is left with a few moments to himself.

Juran stands there for a time, thinking to himself.

If he were free to act, and perhaps a touch more ruthless, this would be the moment where he started plotting the Earl's overthrow. He is too flawed a leader, and the system he presides over too much of an atrocity to tolerate.

But he is not free. He is bound to this course, by oath of friendship and self-interest both, and now he must try to find a path through it. But how? Does one even exist?

He stands there, lost in thought, for some time.

When the interruption comes, it comes with the clinking of crystal limbs, and a harsh voice calling out at him from behind.

"Anathema-Heartsong. We demand your attention."

Behind him, six of the eighteen Vaktri who arrived to swear to work alongside him have arrived, shining nearly too bright to look at in the midday sun. Each hold one of their crystal spears, and all are flashing some shade of red.

Juran blinks, jolted out of his reverie, and turns to regard the Vaktri. Red... anger, in a human, but still some kind of passion in the elemental. Frustration, perhaps, or irritation.

"You have it," he says evenly, "What brings you to me?"

"Why do we not seek out the poison afflicting our God?" the leading Vaktri demands, the others flashing along with its words, "You promised aid, but play games with the invaders. Why have you brought us from our home, if not to help? You cavort with monsters, you trade pleasantries with fae, while our God dies. Why?"

"Games? Is that what you see?" Juran frowns, genuinely slightly insulted, before he stops and closes his eyes. A single calming breath serves to balance him again, and he nods to the reinforced house not far beyond.

"In there is bound another god, mutilated and poisoned by the fae. I brought it here in part so that we might examine the wound, and determine how gossamer and wyld energies might harm divine flesh," he says firmly, "Meanwhile my comrade charts the local geomancy, seeking to understand the flows of essence, and works on tools to undo the harm as we understand it."

He crosses his arms, sets his jaw. "I swore to aid you. I have not forgotten that promise, nor have I forsaken it."

The red lights flash yellow, pink, red and then pales back and stabilize as pink.

There is a silence among them, even with the stable pink, before they speak.

"...we believe an apology might be owed," the lead Vaktri says, with what might be reluctance, "We apologize. There has been strife."

The pink lights flicker red again as the crystal spirit continues.

"Some among us fear you. Your Caste Mark was seen in the Wood God's court. They know you are of the Deceivers. It is an ill omen, and the surface is a strange, hostile place. The fae are all about. Our God spoke to you. I know this. This is not nothing. But the presence of the fae, the pain of our God, those are not nothing, either."

Juran nods. "Apology accepted."

He sighs, shaking his head. "In truth... I am working to aid your god as I can, but I am no sorcerer, no geomancer and worker of miracles. I can only bring together those who are, and hope that together we might succeed where any one of us would fail alone."

He frowns then, his mood growing darker. "Marxom, the fae bound to my service, was the one who mutilated the field gods so. I dare not bring him near your god, nor allow him to know of their existence, but... perhaps we might pretend it is a Vaktri that has been poisoned, and seek his knowledge that way?"

A sudden flash of various colors, yellow and red foremost among them, lasting nearly a minute before the Vaktri leader speaks again.

"...so long as we only deal with that one," it finally responds, "We trust our spears to overpower it, if we must. We are unsure about the others. The spirits of the Roads have warned us of their leaders. We dare not face them."

"Then I will arrange a meeting," Juran nods, "Agree the details between yourselves - a name for the afflicted, the conditions they have displayed. I will present this as a problem I am seeking to solve in order to gain your assistance with some future task."

"Yes," and the way the Vaktri briefly flare a very soft green seems almost like it might indicate relief, "This is something we can do. We shall relay to the others your efforts for the field god. We will tell them that no games are being played."

"Thank you," Juran says, his voice soft but sincere, "If I have my way, I intend to save everyone here - man and god alike. I regret only the time it takes, and the suffering that endures before I find a solution."

The Earl, the gods, these elementals... everyone expects him to work miracles, great and terrible as the demon kings of old. But there are no terrifying lawgivers here, no implacable heralds of shape, only him.

It will have to be enough.

The vaktri depart, walking back to their own encampment, flashing in their silent communications, leaving Juran once more to his reflections.

 

[Kaiya]

In which the mezkerub has an ADVENTURE.
--

Aleu is often busy. Not everyone understands how busy she is. There's so many ways the future can be read, and all of them take time. Butterfly needs frequent checking up on, to make sure things are okay, that she's on the right track, and not messing about with pumpkins or wicked fae. Right now, she's out on her Bestest Day Ever (Aleu thinks. She's pretty sure! It is hard to pin down timing, but Butterfly had the right outfit on, so it's probably today). But just because Butterfly isn't around doesn't mean Aleu isn't busy! She has her own task, today. There's new friends who need her help, and much danger about. So it is that she and Starless Sky are wandering down one of the side roads of Pravance, away from the wheat fields, from the scarecrow gods and plantations full of goblins, in the dangerous part of the country.

The pumpkin part of the country.

The sun shines bright and hot overhead, the hard dirt roads are hot underfoot, and in the distance the pumpkins grow to towering sizes. Starless Sky is material as they hover alongside Aleu, having chosen to take form an hour before, once they had left Juran's lands, a looming disincentive to striking at the lone child Aleu appears to be, and keeping a careful eye out for trouble. For some reason, though, not making sure to watch the pumpkins themselves.

Aleu clutched her pumpkin smashing rock in her hands. The plain gray stone was sharp on one end, and blunt on the other, like some of the hatchets she had seen the humans using. The rock was heavy for her small frame, requiring her to hold it with both hands and make heavy swings with it to get any results.

She had seen the truth of pumpkins last year, while she and Butterfly had been in Champoor. The divination, a pattern of water damage on the table linen of the safehouse she had shared with Butterfly, had told her the grave danger that the pumpkins represented. She must destroy the pumpkin kind, else she would lose something vital and endure even more danger. She feared it would even put her Happening at risk. The following week she had discovered the rock, the earth providing the necessary weapon-to-be, and grew even more certain of her conviction.

Now it was time to put that prophecy to the close. She moved faster, eyes fixed upon the pumpkin menace.

They wander, but no clear vision comes. She doesn't see the friends she is here to help, not yet. Just the looming menace, and the trees to the side.

"Friend Aleu," Starless Sky speaks for the first time since arriving, "Are you...quite certain we should be this far afield?"

The tomescu is usually quiet on their trips, mostly engaging directly in matters of fortune telling, or in response to Aleu's own conversation. This time, though, they are clearly apprehensive, little of their focus on Aleu.

"We are far from Lemane Juran's lands, and I fear there may be hostile creatures about."

"Of course there are," Aleu asserted, gesturing with her rock at the nearest pumpkin patch. Her arms were getting tired already, and she had yet to smash a single pumpkin with the rock!

She frowned, trying to recall what the divinations were. Yep, colorful plants, in the right shapes. Butterfly was very confident that what she had described was pumpkins when she asked. She took a deep breath, "I'm gonna smash those pumpkins."

Then she raised the rock and charged, with a fairly quiet as she was easily winded, "raaaaa!"

There is a small fence to scramble over, made not of chopped wood but woven vines, with a sense of magic about them, to anyone sensitive enough to feel it. The woven vines, pumpkin vines, feel like a firm marking of a boundary, where the field ends, past which the pumpkins may not grow. As Aleu scrambles over it, and as Starless Sky hovers over it, they can hear distant shouts and screaming.

"We should not be here, Friend Aleu!" Starless Sky insists, clouds roiling anxiously around them as Aleu charges the nearest pumpkin, a specimen larger than her, with a tough gourd that her first strike bounces off the side of, leaving only a dent and staggering her.

"but-" she huffed, "evil pumpkins."

She raised her rock again and took another swing.

The shouting grows louder, and footsteps approach. This time, Aleu does more than dent the massive pumpkin, bashing deeply enough to break into the skin, though not to piece through completely. Two mortals run past another pumpkin to their right, as the shrieking howls of goblins fill the air. The two mortals scramble over the boundary fence themselves, broken bronze chains around their feet, dressed in bloody tatters and skinny to near the point of starvation. They climb over the fence and run not for the road, but down the hill it crosses over, into the brush beyond.

Starless Sky wastes little time, surging forward to strike the goblins as they round the pumpkin, unwilling to risk Aleu being targeted by them.

"Friend Aleu, run," Starless Sky commands, as iron-edged limbs burst forth from the smog, carving the first goblin apart as the mists quickly embroil the others in the sudden melee.

Butterfly and Glory were both very clear about this, as well: if Aleu sees goblins, she has to run or hide, never try to fight them.

She startled, dropping the pumpkin smashing rock. Yet, she had no time to pick it back up, and was tired besides. She looked between the pumpkin and the fleeing mortals. She felt pained. She knew what she had to do, but Butterfly and Glory would be so very very disappointed if she got hurt after disobeying them.

She ran, crying from the stress as she climbed over the fence. She wiped her face with her sleeve as her face stung, but she still ran.

The path of least resistance is into the brush, where at least there are places to hide, unlike the open road they'd traveled here by. Running down the hill is at least easier than running up it, and she can hear more noise behind her, high-pitched shrieks of pain, and a terrible wailing cry, words spoken in Old Ream audible within it, a poem which unfolds along with the cry, a prediction of death and horror proclaiming itself composed by the Jade Lions, learning at the feet of the Yozi themselves.

It's a terrible noise, and the further she is from it, the better. The brush at the hill's bottom is full of sticker bushes, but the False Fox Pelt Butterfly made for Aleu protects her easily from the thorns. By the time she's fully exhausted, her sprint turned to a stumble, many sticker branches broken on her armor, she can no longer hear the sounds of battle, and has made it past the bushes and into a small wooded area. Far from a forest, but there is shade from the sun, many places to hide, and a comforting buzz of insect life all about her.

She is, at least for now, safe.

She dropped to her knees, gulping air. She was scared from what she had just encountered, but comforted by the isolation as it meant there were no pursuers in her vicinity. She carefully got back up, but only to move closer to a set of exposed roots of a tree. There she squished down, sucking her armor underneath her and becoming more like a tar pit than a humanoid figure.

From this position, she started carefully looking around, trying to find hints of the future, to advise her on what she should do next. She was, frankly, lost.

There's not much that she can tell. Nothing looks clearly familiar. There's no clear hint. She's found the danger the cards warned her about, but there's no sign of friends. For long minutes, there's just nothing. No signs. No anything, but the sounds of nature.

And then she hears the screaming, a mortal voice, coming from farther ahead, a sudden shout of pain, followed by angry cursing, and angrier buzzing.

The buzzing, though, is familiar. Bees. And she can almost hear something in the buzzing.

Like the tone of a voice, without the words.

They're scared, and angry.

She reformed, adjusting her armor on herself as the prismatic shards of the illusion reformed around her. She hurried, trying to reach the distressed bees before something terrible happened. It sounded like some foolish mortal had stumbled into the hive, and distressed the poor dears.

She could help them, and explain things, and maybe make friends.

The bees, not the mortal.

It's some more stumbling through bushes, before she finds them. Surrounding a pair of mortals, two young men, one waving a bronze farm implement about, swiping at the buzzing, furious swarm. A beehive has fallen to the ground from the above tree and shattered, there is honey on the mortal's hand holding the tools. Their clothing is more tatters than whole, stained with dirt and blood, their skin, already dark, is made darker still by long hours in the sun. Their eyes are tired, but full of fury, and several welts can be seen on each of them. The swarm has their backs to a tree, hemmed in, buzzing with fury over the loss of their home.

Aleu can hear them nearly as clearly as words. The mortal with the farming tool struck the hive down, trying to take the honey within. The swarm is confused, offended, angered, their queen dead in the fall from the tree. Aleu can hear these bees clearer than any other she's ever met. They are bright, alive, clearly intelligent, and feeling horribly lost.

They also intend to kill these mortals, if no one steps in.

Aley audibly gasped in horror, at the horrid thing that had befallen the bees.

She waved her arms to get attention, approaching the fight, "stop, stoooop! Don't hurt each other!"

The bees don't cease buzzing, but their swarm turns towards her, making no more darting tendrils of bees to sting at the cornered mortals.

"No!" one of the mortals shouts, the unarmed one, "Child, it's not safe-" even as the armed mortal turns, preparing to strike if Aleu comes too close, glaring at her suspiciously.

"She's alone and uninjured," the armed mortal snarls, "It's a trick!"

She came up short as the tool was brandished at her threateningly, "why would you hurt the bees like this? You killed their queen!"

"...you're right," the unarmed mortal seems to slump in disappointment, "I'm sorry. You're right, you're always right. It has to be a trick."

"Stay back," the armed one says to Aleu, not answering their friend, other than to step protectively between them, "Just-just fucking stay back. You're not immortal. We know you're not immortal. Flensing Claw is dead, and-and you'll be next, if you try and bring us back! You hear me?!"

He makes a performative swipe in the air between them, stepping forward to force her back, before quickly stepping back himself.

"Just- just go away! You ruined their hive," she yelled back, sniffling. She could still hear the distress of the bees buzzing about. She drew her knives, the ones she really really didn't like, even though Butterfly made them for her. They hungered for blood that they had yet to taste, "just leave!"

She wanted to help the hive, she didn't care about the mortals.

"Fucking Changelings," the armed one snarls, half to himself, glancing at the swarm, "We tried that, the swarm blocks us wherever we move! Or is that your game?! You blame this on us, use the swarm to trap us?!"

He swipes in her direction again, and then at the swarm.

"Either let us go, or kill us," the unarmed mortal speaks, utterly exhausted, but with a strength born of conviction, as the armed mortal glares at both Aleu and the swarm, the tool shifting to cover each of them, back and forth, "We're not playing your games anymore. We're not going back. Kill us, or don't. But we won't be your slaves anymore."

"Then stop waving your thing around! You're adj- agi- making them upset!" She turned her head to the swarm, keeping one eye on the man with the weapon, "Bee friends, I'll help you fix your hive. Please let them go?"

The queen was dead, so they needed some rest to begin making a new queen, if she remembered correctly, but they mortals were adding to their distress and preventing them from making the necessary queen cells.

The swarm buzzes with greater intensity for a moment, before subsiding, withdrawing, moving towards Aleu, and opening a path for the mortals to flee deeper into the brush.

Neither wastes anymore time with words.

They both run as soon as the opening appears, the armed one pausing only for one last threatening swipe, to ensure they are not immediately pursued, before rushing after his friend.

Aleu is left alone with the bees, who buzz their sorrow over their ruined hive, before turning their attention to her. She can hear, in the buzzing, she can see, in the movements within the swarm, that they don't want to be here anymore. That they understand her, and like that she understands them. That they hope she will protect them from all the monsters that keep invading their home lately. That they feel something for her, and accept her offer to build them a new home.

She nodded, sadly, and moved to the ruined hive.

"I can take you home with me," she said, kneeling down next to the hive and began to clean up up as best she could. Special care was taken towards those portions which contained the most intact larvae. They would be necessary to make a new queen. She sorted through the pieces, those that she could bring with her, those that she could not. She wouldn't be able to bring everything. This had been a large hive.

"Pick one of these," she gestured at some of the pieces, "for the queen cells. I'm going to find something to carry them with me. I won't go far."

She stepped away, looking for something large and flat to carry the pieces she could save with her. A slab of bark, perhaps?

It would be easy to carve one from the tree, with the knife Butterfly provided. Harder, with the iron knife she has as a back up, but still doable. The bees hover around the pieces, carefully deciding between them, before at last sending some of the swarm to designate a particular one, the rest hovering above it in a dense cloud.

She rested a hand on the bloodthirsty knives, but shook her head and grabbed her iron knife. Stab, stab, and scrape, and she came away from a tree with a broad plate of bark, and raw hands. She returned to the hive with it, setting the bark down and carefully beginning to move the most important piece over to the slab, putting secondary pieces around it.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," she said. One hand came up to rub at her eye sockets, feeling the membrane there tighten, "I'm going to take you to a nice place. There are lots of flowers there, and I can ask Juran to plant more flowers, and you won't need to worry about your hive being destroyed again. Butterfly will make you a strong box to keep it in, and it will always be comfortable."

She slowly lifted the bark plate and its precious cargo, the remains of the hive.

The bees buzz, and she can feel their gratitude, their relief in her. The patterns of their flight communicate to her that there has been no guardian spirit of this place for many, many generations. More time than they can comprehend or communicate.

They are glad to see a spirit return to the land that does not bring terror and death.

"Then I shall be your guardian spirit," she said, voice firm. She began walking back the way she had ran, earlier. She needed to find Starless Sky, and in any case the swarm's patterns said this was the right direction to go.

Before long, she finds Starless Sky, flowing through the brush and shoving prickers aside, coming towards her. The bright, burning eyes of the tomescu soften in obvious relief as they find her. Most of Starless Sky is hidden by the clouds, but Aleu can see green blood on their carapace, some of it the deep, foul shade of goblin blood, but other limbs show torn carapace and stains of clear, greenish ichor. They are wounded.

"Friend Aleu," Starless Sky sighs in clear relief, "I am so glad I found you. You must not go back to the road. One of the field gods is rampaging, the goblins have lost control over it. We must travel through the brush, out of sight, I am not strong enough to fight such a terror alone, not with the goblins about."

Then the tomescu notices the bees about her, and there is a confusion to their next words.

"...Friend Aleu, are those bees friends? Their numbers are alarming. You must be still, if they are not."

Aleu inhaled sharply, upon realizing Starless Sky's injuries. Her hands trembled, but she swiftly mastered her trembling to prevent the pieces from being jostled.

"They are my friends. I am their guardian spirit now. I shall protect them," she was certain of this, "bee friends, this is Starless Sky. They are my friend too, and will-" she cut off, not wanting to continue to say how the tomescu would protect them, injured as they were. That felt cruel.

She continued, "and we shall go home together. Where the flowers are nice, and nobody shall be hurt further."

"I am honored to meet you, Friend Bees," Starless Sky bows respectfully, a strange motion for a cloud with so many terrible limbs, but conveyed with quiet dignity nonetheless, "Any friend of Friend Aleu is a friend of mine. We must hurry, though. The field god will come this way, all signs warn of it. We must not be here when it arrives."

The tomescu's tone takes a worried edge as they flow forward, mists nudging both Aleu and the bees to move further into the brush, in the direction of Juran's lands.

"While we walk, though, please, Friend Aleu, Friend Bees, tell me how you met. I saw no hint of this in the All-Makers' signs, your gift of prophecy is quite formidable."

"Friend bees, if your wings get tired, land on me."

Aleu began speaking of the events that had occurred, and how things had worked out. Mostly.

 

[emeralis00]

Alternate Title: In which it is revealed that Butterfly has no control whatsoever over her familiars.

 

[Kaiya]

Alternate Title: In which it is revealed that Butterfly has no control whatsoever over her familiars.

Click to shrink...

cackles

accurate XD

 

[beowolf]

I would like to thank @Aleph for posting about this on her Kerisgame thread, and @Kaiya for posting it. For a game to be this high quality of a story in the earliest sessions is a clear sign that it will grow into one of the greats once the players really establish their characters and actions can be references to earlier ones.

 

[Kaiya]

I would like to thank @Aleph for posting about this on her Kerisgame thread, and @Kaiya for posting it. For a game to be this high quality of a story in the earliest sessions is a clear sign that it will grow into one of the greats once the players really establish their characters and actions can be references to earlier ones.

Click to shrink...

You ain't seen nothing yet <3

Please, do keep commenting! Posting the logs is SO BORING and all of us desperately crave comments, being writers and all. Also, your reward is incoming, a few new chapters XD

 

[Kaiya]

Butterfly began her survey off to a rocky start, after discovering over half of her clothing had gone missing. She had deep suspicions as to who did it, but the mez had left before she woke up to go on a 'pumpkin elimination mission' with Starless Sky. Aleu had requested her cloak, but it was still on its hook when Butterfly left. She presumed Aleu had a good reason to leave it there.

After she set off, flying low to stay warm, she mulled over her notes. She couldn't remember why she picked south- east to start with, and was reviewing her calculations. Something was off.

She began recalculating in her head, letting her wings glide to her next destination. Retracing the dragon lines, balancing their values... if she re-orientated the frame from a proper east-west pattern to a north-south one... her eyes widened. There was a missing demesne of some power! She would need to investigate why. If her analysis was correct, it should be formed of lighter elements like air or fire, or maybe even celestial. The heavy wood-earth lines would squeeze it out. Either way, something was feeding on it, that power was going somewhere.

That had been in the morning, and it was now midday.

She mapped out what she could from the air, but now she had to get up close and personal to investigate the things that looked interesting from the air. The first object of business, a peculiar rock formation.

The nature of the rock formation rapidly becomes apparent, as she descends. From above, they formed the shape of a many-legged beast, with some great central mass, perhaps an insect of some sort.

From the ground, she can see that each rock is a statue, weather-worn but still beautiful. The fine details of their faces carved away by wind and rain, but the expressions of pain still able to be made out.

She has found a graveyard of calcified Raksha, each arranged carefully to present the image of some fae horror.

The lingering Wyld Essence made it seem almost as a demesne.

She flapped her wings, coming to a hover rather than a descent. Vaguely, she recalled the dangers of just diving into uncapped demesnes, though it had been entirely a theoretical concern when she was still in Ysyr. She squinted her eyes, trying to determine if the calcification was ongoing. Were there any animals about? Did the plants seem stonelike too?

The Raksha are long dead, but the grass beneath their feet is green and alive. There are flowers growing between the statues and in many different colors, yellow and violent and crimson and cobalt, and overlarge bees and other, stranger insects move from flower to flower, sipping at their nectar. It is not truly a demesne, but the last drips of life of each Raksha had energized the world around them, bringing it to vibrant life.

It would not be impossible to make a demesne of this place, though. It seems well-aspected for Wood, and with the right geomantic talents and magic, she could turn this into a real place of power.

She flew down the rest of the way, recording her observations in her notebook. A task much easier done closer to the ground where there was less wind. This place was good news for her, in the sense of being useful, but not immediately usable due to the necessary required work. The implications for the environment, she chose not to dwell upon.

Still, there was only so much to write down about this place, and so she took flight once again.

Much farther above, she occasionally sees the spirits of air, the Cloud People and the Huraka, arguing, cavorting, occasionally dipping lower to spy after her, intrigued by the flying mortal, and then alarmed by the signs of Sorcery upon her. After a time, though, they seem to retreat from her, none follow after her, and even some of the clouds above seem to hurry away. A reaction none had had before, even as she flew earlier in the day.

And then, from high above, through a parting cloud, an eagle flies down, swooping towards her and then slowing with a flap of great wings. She has never seen a bird so large, its wingspan comparable to her own, the body of it larger than her torso. It has dark feathers, tinged golden, and bright amber eyes which seem to glitter with mischief. It settles to match her own pace, and lets out a high, sharp chirp of greeting.

She blinked and began to glide, so that she didn't have the sound of her flapping, "uh, hello?"

She wiggled her wings just a little bit, in case she couldn't be heard. The bird seemed smart though, given it had started keeping pace with her.

Hello, the bird seems to laugh, and she has certainly never seen so expressive a creature, save perhaps the Neomah which followed in the wake of some of the Sorcerers of Ysyr. With a glance, it conveys an amused greeting and a pleased smile, utterly delighted to be meeting her.

You're a hard girl to find, it seems to convey, and with a glance up to the higher clouds, Butterfly understands that the eagle has been searching for her a long time, and ended up bullying the spirits of the wind in order to track her exact location, when it had at last found the lands she is living in.

The spirits didn't want to talk to me. I'm not the only person bullying them about tracking you, it seems.

She tensed, locking up her wings. Unfortunately, this meant she started to drift, and she had to rapidly flap to right herself.

"T-track me?" There was deep concern in her voice, almost a bit of fear, "why are you tracking me?"

The eagle gives her a sympathetic look, somehow, and she senses some contrition, as well as a touch of teasing to the expression it conveys.

I was kinda hoping you could answer that, pretty girl~ Kinda figured you'd been calling me. Is that not the case? You've been haunting my dreams for awhile now.

She doesn't know how the eagle conveys the words, or if it really does. So much of what it says she feels more than hears, and the words match the emotions, rather than the other way around.

"haunt- pretty?!" She choked, her stability in the air proved ever more questionable as her mental state grew more chaotic.

"I'm, I'm learning how to send dreams but I haven't succeeded yet, and I don't- Did I mess up?!"

Still learning to fly, huh? the eagle's sympathetic expression deepens, and somehow it manages to smile at her, Maybe we should land to talk? I'd hate to make you crash.

"Ah, yeah, lets," her face reddened. Did this poor eagle get bombarded with the dreams she was trying to send to Aleu (as practice)? She began to descend, taking a look down for a suitable spot.

The eagle takes no such time to check, simply diving down like a falling rock, or perhaps an arrow, aimed at small copse of trees a mile or so off the dirt road leading off towards the Duke's lands from Pravance, near the main river that flows out to the ocean which divides the Earl's lands from the Duke's.

Butterfly followed, letting the eagle take the lead here. She began forming apologies in her head, and trying to figure out how she possibly sent stray dreams so far off target. She had thought she wasn't succeeding at all.

She lands nearly a minute after the eagle does, descending through the leaves it had gone through, unable to match the sheer speed of its descent. There's no eagle, however, when she enters the grove. In fact, there doesn't seem to be anything at all. She knows it didn't fly out, though.

"Oh, wow," a voice, a human voice, giggles from above her after a moment of looking around, "You don't have great eyes, huh?"

Looking above her reveals a young woman lounging in a large tree branch, looking down at Butterfly with great amusement. She's dressed in a dark blue dress shirt with brass buttons, long white sleeves and pants, running down to knee-high boots that have no business being so spotless while worn by someone currently in a tree, with one leg hanging over the edge of the branch, kicking idly. Long, voluminous black hair flows down in curls from her head, and she's smiling brightly, a single lock of hair fallen down over her face. She wears a golden circlet set with a piece of green jade over the middle of her forehead, and her bright amber eyes seem to literally glitter with mischief.

Her bearing radiates a casual, lazy assurance, and what is most striking about her is how cute she is. Her large eyes and button nose seem almost sculpted to invite affection, and for all that she has positioned herself above Butterfly and is looking down upon her with clear teasing amusement, there is nothing hostile or condescending in her posture or expression.

Butterfly blinked up at her, cheeks warming. Was she the mysterious eagle?

"I, um, haven't really had issues with my eyesight?" She had known some back in Ysyr to require specially made lenses. Sometimes certain slaves were valuable enough to take the small expense, "haven't really needed to have particularly good eyesight. Not very important when studying or in my workshop. Though I guess I could make something that would improve my eyes, but it'd be kind of a waste of time-"

She snapped her mouth shut with a flush.

"Fucking. Adorable," the young woman says with obvious affection, smiling widely, "I've traveled about eight thousand miles over ten and a half months, and I gotta say, worth it. You were so intense in the dreams, but now that I'm here, you're blushing. I love it. I love you. Everything aboutcha', honestly!"

It's hard to place the young woman's accent, other than from the Eastern River Provinces in an extremely generic sort of way. She speaks Firetongue at the moment, but her accent contorts the language into extreme informality, and Butterfly recognizes the accent from some of Juran's business partners from those lands.

"Ten months?" She asked, "I've only been practicing the spell for a few days now."

Ten months ago would put her in Champoor still- her brain froze.

"love?!"

"Oh, it weren't no spell," the young woman laughs, her grammar slipping into a form of familiarity that would have gotten Butterfly beaten, had she ever spoken like that in Ysyr, "No idea what you were doing. I just kept dreaming of you, in a forge, glowing golden, working with a little tar creature that was sometimes a kid, hanging out with some old man, working yourself like crazy, smoothing out iron with your bare hands. Crazy stuff, you know? Makes me wish I hadn't burnt my bridges with the Pact, but eh. If they'd answered to my satisfaction, maybe I wouldn't be here," she smiles again, and this time her eyes run up and down Butterfly, clearly taking every inch of her in, "And that would be a crying damn shame."

"Yeah thats- thats definitely me. Sounds like you had prophetic dreams about me," she shifted from foot to foot under the gaze of the woman, unused to that kind of attention, "and you enjoyed those dreams?"

"Do you know how much eight thousand miles is?" the young woman raises an eyebrow questioningly, "That's more than twice the length of the Dreaming-damn-Sea. I don't make trips like that for dreams I don't like."

She gives Butterfly a weighing gaze now, as if contemplating something important.

"Pretend I ruffled your hair when I said that," she adds, "It'd be great as a gesture, but I like the branch look more."

Butterfly wasn't exactly familiar with maps. It wasn't something she needed to deal with in her daily life, she really didn't know how far eight thousand miles was. Twice the length of the dreaming sea however...

"You crossed half of Creation to get here!"

For me she almost thought, but her brain refused to focus on that implication.

"Thereabouts," she agrees, nodding sagely, "Hell of a trip. Almost literally. Nearly tripped into the Endless Desert at one point. Fuck all of that, as I'm sure you could understand," she laughs again, smiling wide, "Thankfully, I can fly, so it wasn't as obnoxious a trip as you might expect. And now, here I am~"

She spreads her arms wide, as if inviting Butterfly to take her in, and gives her a knowing little wink.

The woman's arms, and everything else, looked very inviting, as Butterfly's brain once again did a reset. Her eyes were wide as she simply stared.

"Butterfly!" She sputtered after a moment, "I'm Butterfly."

"I know," she says cheerfully, "Spirits told me yer name~ But! You don't know mine," and here she hops deftly down from the tree, landing gracefully and turning the motion easily into a bow with no modesty, managing to turn the gesture of respect into an act of preening vanity.

"I," she says, glancing up from her bow with sparkling eyes, "Am Loklear Feyborn," she rises, and Butterfly realizes that Loklear is noticably taller than her, not toweringly so, but her long legs easily give her a few inches on Butterfly, "Son and daughter of the Wyld, Devil of the Changing Moon," and her smile widens, too wide, stretching too large to fit on her face, as a blazing silver crescent ignites upon her forehead, casting the grove in a silvery glow, "Peer to the gods, child of the Fae, and brother to all devils!"

"But you," she steps closer, and her smile fits back on her face, soft and gentle now, as she closes the distance to a mere few steps between them, "May call me Loki~"

Her heartrate spiked, in some part from the sudden closeness of a very attractive woman, but in another from being confronted by a Lunar. Silver anathema.

She knew vaguely that the Immaculates were biased, and Ysyr didn't have the Immaculate Faith as a state religion, but many childhood stories had the stealers of faces as the monster.

"H-hi," she squeaked out.

"...oh my gods you're scared of me," and Loki is beaming wildly, her eyes glittering bright, "That's adorable! The terrible Demon Queen, scared of little old me~"

Loki swaps to Old Realm for the title, and it is one Butterfly recognizes readily. One she has spoken only a handful times in her life, each while bowing in terrified supplication.

The proper title of the Overlords of Ysyr.

"I'm- I'm not an Overlord," she said, her tone mixed, reflecting the flux of her own emotional state. She had repeated the same word back, with only a slight application of accent, her native Ysyri.

Loki's expression is confused for a moment, before something clicks.

"Oh! Hah, holy shit, is that what they call themselves?" and she's laughing again, takes a step back, grinning, "Ysyri Overlords, the big guys, right? They call themselves that?" and the laughter is more giggles than anything intimidating, "They're calling themselves fuckin' Solars, that's fantastic. Imma rub it in their faces, first time I meet one. Right in their faces. Fuckin' Demon King, provincial-ass backwater, morelike," she's shaking her head, still giggling, "Ah, I wish I could tell Raksi that one. Or, well, watch someone else tell her, she'd definitely kill the messenger on that one."

Butterfly was distracted by Loki's laugh, irritation and fear fading away in the face of the amusement before her. Though, the point was valid. She was a Solar, who had featured in some of the children's scary stories as well, if not to the same extent as lunars.

"They do yes. I've not really met them directly. I wasn't important enough for the attention," maybe if her foolish plan had worked, but she was glad it didn't. She had better perspective now, "but uh, they're very scary. They're not- they scare Prasad."

"Huh," the laughter fades a bit, Loki raises an eyebrow, "You sure 'bout that? Seems more like they probably annoy Prasad. I mean, pretty sure Prasad's got more damn Dragon-Blooded than Ysyr has Sorcerers."

Another glance up and down Butterfly, this time lingering on the exposed skin her outfit shows.

"You'd know better than me, though," she admits, her tone becoming almost serious for a moment, "Gods know I've been burned for ignoring warnings from the people who've been there. I'll believe you, if you say they're scary fucks," and the smile returns, suddenly full of predatory intent, "But, level with me: you're gonna kill 'em dead someday. No way you aren't."

She reaches out and touches one of the sorcerous marks on Butterfly's skin, the warping left by Ysyr's sorcerous engines upon her, "That's a slave mark, yeah? All of 'em are. 'Swhat they do to the slaves, twist 'em?"

She begins to circle Butterfly, walking around her back, one finger trailing over bronzed skin.

"It's the best thing, about turning into one of the real monsters. Everyone who ever fucked you, you get to fuck 'em dead."

Loklear's voice is soft, as she speaks, her touch is gentle, but the air around her seems to fill with an electric tension. Butterfly can tell, on a bone deep level, that she is in the presence of a predator on a level she's never known.

A predator not of animals or men, but of gods and monsters.

"Tell me I'm wrong," and when the whisper comes, it is directly in her ear, Loklear nearly embracing her from behind.

Butterfly shivered at the first contact, as her thoughts went into disarray once again.

Then she pressed back into Loki, arms coming up to grab Loki's and hold them close, "I'll destroy them. Every single one of those who would call themselves Overlord or prop up their horrid government. Shatter it, and take the pieces for myself."

Her words were quiet, but vehement, and tinged with a desire to inflict pain.

"Damn fuckin' straight," Loklear says, with clear approval in her voice, the electricity fading, the tension in her posture vanishing as she drapes herself over Butterfly's shoulders, leaning into her and wrapping her arms loosely around her torso, resting her chin on Butterfly's bare shoulder, "Believe me when I say that it's the most satisfying thing you'll ever damn do~"

And then she hops back, the contact is broken and she twirls lightly back around to stand in front of Butterfly, smiling approvingly.

"I'm very glad we're on the same page," she preens, "Vengeance kicks ass, and so does magic and stealing shit. I think we're gonna get along fantastically."

Butterfly released her breath with a quick sigh at the departure of the contact, feeling a little like she had when she discovered alcohol in Glory's safehouse cabinet (and swiftly decided never to experiment with the contents of such again once the drink had ran its course through her veins).

"Y-yeah," she started once she gathered her wits enough, "it's why I'm here, trying to gather resources and grow stronger. So that I can fight them, later."

"Definitely a strong approach," Loki nods approvingly again, "'Specially for an artificer like yourself, at least if it's anything like the Lunars I've known who leaned that way. Always about finding this material, making those tools, tracking down Moonsilver, it was enough to put me off the whole idea," and she laughs again, though there was no joke to what she was saying, "Not that you gotta worry about that so hard. Word is you found a bunch of Jade. No doubt you've already got some crazy shit in mind, if my dreams were right about you."

She looks over curiously now.

"Actually, huh. You're not wearing any Jade. Did that bear bitch lie to me? Didn't think he had the balls, but I've been wrong before."

"oh, uh, I've been working on other stuff. I only finished work on building a bunch of communal housing last month. Still working on a daiklave for Marxom," she scratched her neck, "and I'm in the process of researching a damaged field god, to make something to help heal them. Juran's been working on getting more notes for me to work with too."

"...you're making a daiklave for the torturer faery?" and here Loklear just sounds baffled, "I'm probably missing some context, but that sounds like a wildly stupid thing to do."

"Ah," she looked down, hunching up so that she seemed smaller. She would have insisted before that she had time to resolve the problem, but the card Aleu had drawn still haunted her thoughts, the card that suggested betrayal. She let the moment drag out, not able to muster any defense for herself.

"Hey," and Loklear's expression turns to a blend of sympathetic and stern, and she raises a finger to point directly at Butterfly's forehead, "Fuck whatever prick inside your head that just told you to feel bad. You're allowed to do stupid shit, and I don't even know that this is stupid shit. Like I said, I don't have the context here. And in any case, sometimes, stupid is fun. If you wanna arm a monster faery and make him your boytoy legbreaker, you own that, you understand? You're the fucking boss with the shit you make. It's your shit. You understand?"

"I got carried away," she admitted, gathering her thoughts, and focusing on the feeling of strength from before, "the sword was supposed to be a reward, according to Juran. I just, it felt so easy to push further. Like, you know the boundary is just a suggestion, and its so easy to step across the line just to see how far you can go. Then when I got started and had time to think, I realized it was too much. I couldn't just stop though, it'd- it'd ruin the sword."

Butterfly shook her head, "I know its a problem. I'm trying to think of a way to resolve it."

"It's a problem if you say it's a problem," Loki says, still serious, shaking her head, "Don't you let me ruin your fun. Worst case scenario, if it goes bad, I'll eat him and spit the sword out, and you can turn it into whatever the Hell else you want."

She steps closer to Butterfly, and once more leaves her very aware of how little space there is between them, and if Butterfly looks up, to meet Loki's gaze, she will see the burning intensity that glitters in her eyes.

"I'd never forgive myself if you stopped doing something amazing just 'cause I said it was stupid. If you wanna push as hard and shine as bright as you can, because you can? Do it. That's what life is about. Finding what makes you shine, what makes it all worth while, and chasing it as far and fast as you can."

And then her lips twitch into a smile, and the brief mad intensity fades, replaced by a sudden warmth and distinct suggestiveness.

"Besides. There's not a lot hotter than a crazy reckless Sorceress showing everybody else exactly what she can really do. Just makes you more and more my type, you know?"

Butterfly's eyes widened, as Loki got closer. She swallowed, her eyes dipped down and discovered that was a very dangerous direction to look. She looked to the side instead, much safer. She didn't know how to react to Loki's words, but the predominant emotion she felt was disbelief.

"Type? There's... better people than me for that," she muttered.

Loki's head tilts to the side, and her smile turns to amused affection.

"You even believe that," she says, her voice taking a teasing lilt, "I'll say it again: Adorable."

And she leans down and plants a kiss, soft and sweet, right on Butterfly's lips.

Butterfly froze in surprise, but then, in a move that stunned herself in her boldness, put her arms around Loki.

She didn't need much convincing to change her mind at that point, weak as her excuse already was.

Loki's arms wrap around her in turn, and the kiss lasts for several long, long moments before she breaks it, stepping back within Butterfly's embrace, and smiling at her.

"And on that note," she begins, her tone turning deliberately light, "There's a pretty neat place around here, where I've been sleeping while I looked for you. A Demesne of Water, about an hour off, by flight, at least, up from the river. I still haven't found the Hearthstone. Feel up to a dip?"

"A demesne?" Her eyes gleamed. Then the last portion of Loki's words registered, "ah..."

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Follow me, then~" Loklear smiles, and then a pair of vast wings erupt from her back, and with a great beat of them, she shoots up into the sky!

Butterfly let her own wings spread from her back, brilliant and moth-like. Stray sigils scattered into the air as she flapped to get them ready. Then she followed, if at a lesser burst of speed.

 

[Kaiya]

It takes time for both Aleu and Butterfly to return to Juran's lands, time in which he is far from idle. More slaves are arriving by the day, as revolts and escapes fill the neighboring lands. There are six other Lemanes in Pravance, each a Raksha who distinguished themselves in the Earl's service, each granted land and slaves and a responsibility to continue to maintain the desired aesthetics of the Queen's Dominion and the strengths of its armies, to maintain dominance over the spirits of the land and ensure the cooperation of the spirits of the sky.

For the most part, they war amongst each other and their servants, but now, their eyes turn hatefully to Juran's lands. None have yet acted, but the slaves have carried whispers of their rage, and Juran now faces the first true gesture of their displeasure: Lemane Endless Autumn, a female Cataphract whose swordsmanship is famous in the Dominion, has sent a messenger bearing official protest to his lands, demanding an audience with him. The Messenger is not of Pravance, but rather one of the Horned Maidens, the diplomat-assassins of the Queen Herself.

They bear a fae version of Juran's own diplomatic immunity. To harm them or bar their passage or obstruct with their duties in any way would draw the Queen's attention, personally and directly, and provoke her immediate ire. For his safety and the safety of his lands, he must be present when she arrives in his home, and he must engage with her, dangerous as the Lorelei are, as she speaks on behalf of Endless Autumn, and seeks his side of this story.

Butterfly had returned from her trip largely smug and satisfied, and just a little bit more assertive. Though, when she learned of what Aleu had gotten up to, there had been a flurry of chaos as she got some medical attention for Starless Sky and proceeded to not let Aleu out of her sight for very long. At least the bees Aleu brought back got a lovely beehive built by Butterfly.

By the time the messenger arrived, she had largely calmed down.

Juran is... not pleased to hear of the emissary, but neither is he terribly surprised. Such a consequence was inevitable, and while it has not happened according to the schedule he sought, neither can he fairly deny the escaped slaves the safe harbour they now seek in his lands.

So he dons his finest clothing, prepares himself in mind and spirit as best he can, and grants his fellow Lemane her audience.

Marxom offers him quick, whispered advice ahead of her arrival, as he prepares.

"You have never faced a being such as this," he tells Juran sharply, "The Horned Maiden's are the Queen's personal killers and overseers. They are to the Lorelei what the Dragon-Blooded are to mortal spymasters. They embody the only law this land holds sacred: that the Queen's Will is supreme. They are each trained in the Ebon Shadow Style variant developed by the late Shogunate for the assassins serving the Daimyos. If the Earl were ever to greatly displease the Queen, it is one of them who would end his life. Endless Autumn hopes that you will speak against the Queen's authority, or place yourself above her laws, and be summarily executed without needing to act against you directly. That one of the Horned Maidens is taking the trip here means the Queen knows of your existence, and is trying to decide whether or not to tolerate it. Do not offend her."

Butterfly was terrified, as far as she was concerned, this was an enforcer for someone on the level of the Sorcerer Lords. She ordered Aleu to remain immaterial, and Starless themself was kept within the essence of Creation where they would remain safe.

Juran nodded curtly as he took in the information. A familiar game this - when peers clashed, it was all too often the preferred gambit to bring the wrath of a superior into the equation. Ideally, he could avoid such issues... though he was well aware that familiarity did not mean safety

When the Lorelei arrives, it is with twelve fawning hobgoblins following at her feet. She is pale, with crimson eyes, and wears finery of shining purple gossamer, covering most of her body, which invites the eye to stare into the fabric and lost themselves, senses growing dull to danger. A bandolier of knives wraps around her torso, and long violet hair runs over her shoulders. Affixed to the sides of her head are curving horns of white jade, carved after an antelopes'. They must be hollow, or the Raksha's neck unusually strong, to not be overweighing her head.

Five Lightning stands at Juran's right hand, firm and steady, jaw set and teeth gritted. Ready to defend him if needs, and suppressing signficant alarm. Marxom stands at his left, smiling placidly and unconcerned, a dutiful servant showing nothing of the earlier urgency he'd imparted.

"Lemane Juran Heartsong," she speaks, and her voice is lovely in a way Juran has only heard from Fire Aspect performers singing for audiences of the wealthy and powerful, a voice that invites calm and promises wrath, a voice which brooks no defiance, but offers no threat, "Lemane Endless Autumn has charged you a rebel against the Queen's Order, an abolitionist and a saboteur, who seeks to undermine the safety of Her Dominion. If these charges be truth, speak now."

The words of the Lorelei echo through the room, through Juran's ears, and into his very soul. To defy them would be difficult, nearly impossible, they demand the truth be spoken, and lies be silenced. To prevent his mouth from opening and his tongue from speaking his guilt would be nearly unthinkable.

But he is not guilty.

The emissary's voice is lovely, washing over him like a tide... and in Juran's mind, it finds no purchase. A rebel? A saboteur? When he is friend and ally to his local liege, the Earl Redsaber? How preposterous.

The charge of abolitionist rings slightly more true... but in response wells up the sudden conflict he felt, after his conversation with Marxom, the frustration and doubt when he learned just how integral the field gods and the terror of the slaves were to this whole system. The pained resolution to find some other path to achieve his goal.

And so he remains silent, smiling pleasantly, waiting for the emissary to speak once more.

Silence fills a minute, as the magic echoes through the room. Butterfly, as she feels it washes over her, knows, beyond any doubt, that if she had been posed this question, she would shout her guilt for all the world to hear. In the face of that perfect voice, there could be no defiance.

"You are either innocent, or possessed of unusual will," the Horned Maiden finally speaks, as the minute passes, "Were you Raksha, this would be the end of the matter. But you are Exalted, and Exalted defiance towards their betters is the stuff of legends. Speak now, in your defense. Tell me of the conflict that has summoned me here, and why might Endless Autumn have lied, or been mistaken? I am well-trained in scenting out deception. Take care before you lie to me, Deceiver. To lie to the Queen in official capacity is to endure a century's torment before you are allowed to perish, and I have bested Exalted liars before."

The Horned Maiden's eyes survey Juran as she speaks, the weight of them falling upon him, sinking into his skin, seeking more of him, seeing further than mortal eyes should see.

"What need have I of lies, when the truth serves so well?" Juran says, speaking with quiet confidence. "I am new to the court, yet blessed with unusual success and the Earl's avowed friendship. I imagine that Endless Autumn fears being displaced, and losing what status and influence she has - I say imagine, for I do not believe I have shared words with her in the last half year, and so can only guess at her intent."

He speaks truer than he knows, to the perception of the Horned Maiden. He imagines that his fellow Lemane fears being displaced because he intends to displace her, because he dislikes how she and those like her run things and intends to create a better way. Because he cares more for the mortals and the spirits of this land than he does for the Raksha that rule it and the structures they have imposed.

"...you tread dangerously, Lemane," the Horned Maiden speaks, more quietly this time, the edge in her voice the edge of a razored knife, "Your ambitions border upon rebellion. Border upon sabotage. I charge you again: If you would undermine the safety of the Queen's Dominion against her enemies for the advantage of the mortals enslaved within, speak now."

Juran's eyes narrow as he weighs up this... this intruder, this emissary of a power far beyond his own. Is she purely a cipher for the Queen, or has she her own desires and objectives here?

The Horned Maiden stares impassively, but he can see emotion behind her words. Envy and pride and resentment fill her, fill her place in this world. She is skilled at hiding her emotions, but she is not here of her own will. She is slaved to a higher power, if her will were her own, there is no being she would ever serve. She has no choice in any action she takes, even by the limited standards of the Raksha's capacity to choose.

"My... ambitions," Juran Heartsong says, his voice quiet but intense, "Yes, emissary, I have ambitions. No, I will not compromise them, nor surrender my values. You wish an answer to that charge? Let it be this - I deny the very idea that there must be a choice."

He speaks from the heart now, strong and confident, the mark of the sun upon his brow. "I would see the mortals here advantaged, and the Queen's Dominion strengthened for it. I would see all prosper, all benefit, be they ally or subject or even jealous rival. Through trade and treaty and alliance I would see this land become equal to any across Creation or beyond. Such is the value of my friendship. Such is the meaning of my ambition."

Butterfly was listening, a couple steps back, and staying focused on the floor. Her gossamer dress remained lovely and clean, cut perfectly to her form. Her mantra in her head was to stay focused on the work she was doing for Marxom, or on Loki. She was very very glad that she was not the one being interrogated here.

...and when she heard Juran's words, her breathe caught in her throat as she felt the faintest hints of hurt over betrayal start to slide down her spine.

She didn't want Ysyr to prosper at all.

The Horned Maiden stares for long moments, her magic shattered as Juran stands up to counter it. She stares for long moments, silent behind her implacable gaze.

Behind those eyes, Juran can see the impression forming. The reassessments she's making. The slight loss of combat-readiness from her demeanor. The perception she is forming is one of a dangerous asset, rather than a threat to neutralize.

"I see," is all she says out loud, breaking the silence, "The Queen's eyes are upon you, Solar. She will not interfere in this feud of yours, but do not forget that you exist at her sufferance. The Age of Dreams ended in bloodshed and flame, and the Age of Dragons ended when we butchered them in their beds, coughing blackened blood from throats torn by muscle spasms. You will not survive opposing her. You may yet prosper at her feet."

With that, the Horned Maiden turns and stalks out without another word, the cowering hobgoblins falling behind her once more.

Five Lightning only dares to exhale once the Lorelei has left the building and the doors closed behind her.

"Fuck, that was scary," she sighs heavily, "Fucking Raksha."

She glances at Marxom.

"Present company included."

"And I you, dear Five Lightning," Marxom says, with a voice as dry as the Southern deserts, "And I you."

"I... really do need to stop making these grand pledges," Juran says with a sigh, slumping back in his seat, "Else one day I shall commit myself to some impossible monstrosity."

He rubs his jaw for a moment. "Still. To be thought of a dangerous asset rather than a potential traitor... there are worse ways that could have ended."

"Juran, are you-" Butterfly began, hurt in her voice. Unfortunately, that was about as far as she could take the confrontation before loosing the willpower to finish her question.

"Nevermind."

"...Butterfly?" Juran looks over at her, sudden concern in his dark eyes, "What is it?"

"Are you going to help me with Ysyr?" She asked quietly, "were you going to help them prosper too?"

"What? No, I..." Juran says, before pausing. He thinks back over his words, and how they must have sounded. "I see."

He takes a breath, shaking his head.

"Ysyr cannot prosper while the sorcerer-lords yet rule," he says quietly, regretfully. "I do not hate them as you do, for I have never known their cruelty as you have, but when the time comes I would see their slaves set free and their people feast at a common table. The lords will not allow this, and so their power must be broken. I thought that was what you wanted."

"It is, I was just," she wilted, "I didn't want you to betray me too."

"I am sorry, Butterfly," Juran says, perhaps more tired than he expected. The audience had wearied him. "I should have been more careful with my words. I hurt you, and for that I apologise."

Butterfly's face was a mix of emotions, chief among them old worry and loneliness, "I understand."

She took a step back, glancing in the direction of her forge, "I have things I need to work on. I should go."

"I..." Juran hesitates, then nods. "Of course. If you want to talk, my door is always open."

Butterfly retreated. Aleu materialized as Butterfly was about to leave the room, grabbing her hand and walking out with her.

 

[emeralis00]

Really its impressive how much stuff Butterfly gets away with because people immediately dismiss her. That might get someone killed one day.

 

[Kaiya]

The sun shines bright above Juran's lands, the biting grass blades blowing gently in the light winds of late Ascendant Earth. The heat is still the relative mild of Earth, not yet reaching the blazing heights of late Wood and Fire. With the Horned Maiden departed and a lull in the constant bustle, Juran has time to practice with and drill his ever-growing militia. The size of it has swollen greatly over the last month, more than a hundred people are now under arms, enough that the fine iron weaponry is being given to active patrols, and the new hands must practice with spare bronze spears and blades until more can be made.

It is good that he had the time, he quickly realizes, because while the militia are enthusiastic, only a small few have the discipline of professional soldiers. Even the career warriors among them were more bandits and raiders before their capture, and rage and deprivation have deprived all but a few of any real sense of discipline. When they work as friends, patrols made up of people who have known each other through the horrors of slavery under the fae, they can summon something like what is needed to work as a unit, but as soon as their numbers grow the problems become quickly apparent.

None of these people are used to working together, or under a commander. None of them are familiar with military life as Juran knows of it under Prasad. They are far more akin to the wild fury of the fae goblins, and disorder quickly spreads in the basic drills he sets up as everyone seeks to impress him, and none know what it is that he is looking for.

It takes Juran only a few minutes of working with the militia to discard the idea of rigid drill or parade-ground maneuvers out of hand. Such things take months or years to master, and are better suited to heavy infantry in any case, the feared Prasadi legions perhaps first among them. Instead he ropes in a few members of his guard and begins work on the very basics.

"The key is trust," he says, demonstrating a handful of standard moves before a watching crowd, a guard at his side. With his sword he performs a lunge, dangerously extending himself, and the guard steps forward and raises his shield. "You must trust the person beside you, and you must be worthy of their trust in turn. They must know that if they step forwards, you will be there, and they cannot stop to check - not without taking their eyes off the goblin before them."

He hardly needs to tell these people what goblins do to the distracted and the vulnerable.

There are some angry murmurs, but none directed at him. He has already won their trust, for the most part, and they believe him when he speaks. They follow at directed, turning to practice. They are not skilled at it, there is a great distance to go. As he notes, months or years, at least under mortal commanders. He can also see that few of them have much trust for anyone but him. He can see what they think of him, few can hide it. The hope he represents. Hope of vengeance. The safety and comfort he has already brought, after a lifetime of hardship. They hold no anger for him, and the fury and hate they have for the fae is enough to silence arguments against the exercises he presents. They are willing to try, because it is he who asks it of them.

Time will only tell how well this will hold up in actual combat.

The drilling goes on, the exercises run from the morning and into the afternoon, as Juran tries to learn their strengths and weaknesses, and find the instructions that will most be able to reach them, and guide them towards becoming a true fighting force.

Juran is distracted by it, and this is one excuse. Five Lightning is not here, and that is another. But, in truth, there was never any chance that he would have seen the serpent slithering into one of the combat groups. His eyes are simply not refined enough. Even the militia members did not notice when a shadow fell over it, and it rose as a human, a young woman with skin darkened to the shade of the Southern people who work hard under the sun of Pravance and dark hair cut roughly short, her cheeks pinched by apparent hunger and a glittering amusement in her eyes.

He doesn't notice when she casually leaves formation after nearly half an hour of quietly trying to see if he notices her. No one seems to particularly pay attention to her, even when she walks up beside him.

She waits, and she smiles, for him to realize that someone has materialized at his side, and in that moment in which he does not notice, her skin grows pale and her hair grows long, and she no longer wears the simple woven cloth of Pravance's people, but rather fine clothing, a blue top and white leggings and boots which rise to her knees, an ensemble more fitting to a professional merchant in the far East, the dyes alone indicating an expense beyond anyone locally but the Raksha and Juran himself.

Juran pauses briefly, glancing sideways at the figure that has suddenly materialised at his side. He blinks, visibly thrown, then rallies.

"Well," he says, as calmly as he can, "I suppose you're not an assassin, at least."

The woman besides him beams, her smile adorning her face almost like the sun upon his own brow when he allows it to shine. Her eyes glitter brightly, and she takes the smallest step back to allow herself room to bow briefly and with an absolute lack of modesty.

"If I was," she confirms cheerily, "You'd be very dead. You gotta work on your eyes. 'Specially in fairyland," her smile becomes lopsided and seems to relish the possibility of disaster as she adds teasingly, "Don'tcha know? The goblins'll getcha."

"Mm. They can't," Juran says flatly, and beneath his guise of seeming calm there is a man who was genuinely rattled by this woman's sudden appearance. "Not while the terms hold."

For a moment he softens - this stranger crept up on him, to be certain, but look at her. Surely nothing so appealingly soft and playful could be dangerous? Only for a moment, though. Then Juran's eyes sharpen and his eyes harden, reason prevailing over what his heart is telling him.

"Your name, if you'd be so kind," he says sharply, "And perhaps a reason for me to not take this stunt as threat and insult both."

The sunny expression loses something of it's brightness, though the smile remains, and the woman obligingly takes another step back, putting more space between them as the militia drills slow, turning to watch in confusion, murmurs breaking out at the sudden presence of the stranger, weapons gripped anxiously, unsure if they should intervene.

"Loklear," she says, her voice still coming out as a chirp, "Loki, to my friends~ And any friend of Butterfly's is a friend of mine!"

Her next words come as an afterthought, as she tilts her head in mild curiosity, "...Butterfly did tell you about me, yeah?"

She hides it well, but he catches it. Her body language is muted, where she doesn't choose to free it. Her microexpressions finely tuned to reveal what she wants to show, and hide what she wishes to hide. He catches it, though.

She was expecting him to recognize her on sight, and that Butterfly apparently didn't inform him of her has caused her real hurt.

"She has not, and I am not in the business of prying" Juran says, his voice flat. "Nor would you be the first to take advantage of her kind heart to get to me. So. Miss Loklear. Why are you here?"

His gaze is probing, measuring, utterly uncompromising. That she is hurt seems genuine, but he would have her measure beyond mere cues - why is this stranger here, and what does she intend?

Her smile fades once more, nearly vanishing as her eyes literally flash with sudden anger, Juran can see how it sabotages everything else she attempts, even as he can observe mystical effort clouding her emotions from his senses, trying to deny him what he seeks.

She fails to hide herself from Juran's gaze. He can see, in her bearing, in her affront, in her anger and sudden hurt, that she came here to endear herself and intimidate him. She came to attempt to wrap him around her fingers, to mold him into an asset, but not for his sake. She's worried what he might do against her, if left alone, and if her earlier comments are true, then that means she is worried what he might say to Butterfly about her, if she does not intervene.

But she did not anticipate him resisting her wiles, and she did not anticipate him being able to read her as clearly as he did, and now she is rattled and off-foot, and her silence speaks volumes on its own.

For a moment, Juran's gaze remains hard... and then he sighs, and shakes his head.

"Old, rich men are one thing, Miss Loklear. Old, rich Solars are quite another," he says, not unkindly, "Now. Shall we start over? Without the unpleasantness."

The smiles fades entirely, and her eyes show no emotion. For a moment, they seem almost as if she has died, before life returns and a false smile graces her face, empty of good feeling, but carefully polite.

"I was not intending to be unpleasant, Aap Heartsong," she chooses a Prasadi term of formal respect, and it is unclear if she intends to be disrespectful, or has simply misjudged his true homeland, "I was trying to approach you as I would a friend. You need not worry about my intentions towards you," and she carefully schools her face into bland, dripping respectfulness as she places emphasis on the pronoun, "Your treasures hold little value to me. The hold you have over the girl of my dreams is all I care about. I want us to be friends."

The words are saccharine to the point of sarcasm, the respect so bland that it would play well in a satire, a deliberate undermining of the emotional tone the words are meant to be spoken with.

She does not attempt to hide her petulance at being seen through, though her eyes continue to run carefully over him, watching his own mood, seeking his own reactions.

"Hm. Let's have this conversation somewhere a bit more private, shall we?" Juran says after a moment, glancing at the lingering militiamen. "Carry on, everyone. I'll be back before the hour is out, most like."

He turns and walks back towards his offices, gesturing for Loklear (Loki to her friends, but then they are not friends, now are they?) to follow.

She stares for long moments, lingering after he turns and walks away, her expression briefly contorting into frustrated fury once his back is turned, as she perceives nothing but calm, professional detachment in response to her words.

She allows the echo of his voice to fade before she hurries after him, waiting long enough to make clear that she hasn't been commanded before she follows him to his office.

Juran's office is a cool, pleasant place, with a window to a sea breeze and comfortable seats for his guests. There are no filing cabinets or strongboxes here - he keeps the documents aboard his ship, most times - but there is at least a drinks cabinet, which Juran is busying himself at when the younger woman arrives trailing after him.

"The hold I have over the girl of your dreams, was it?" Juran says as she enters behind him. "I'd ask what your intentions were towards Butterfly, but that makes me sound rather like her father, doesn't it? Worse things to be, I suppose. Do you drink?"

"As long as it isn't rice wine," is the somewhat snitty reply, as she looks at the seating available and, after a visible moment of thought, decides to stand, turning haughtily towards him and crossing her arms over her chest.

She takes a moment to consider his words before answering the former part of his statement.

"Butterfly respects the hell out of you," she adds, leaning against the wall, "More than you deserve. Too much. She's easily influenced, though, so that makes sense. You're wearing Manticore skin," and the latter statement is delivered suddenly, sharply, and punctuated with a step forward, "Your people are armed with iron, but there's not a charcoal forge in all of the Dominion. Her anima light shines fucking constantly. My intentions? What about yours?"

Juran is silent for a moment, as he finishes pouring the drinks. Something light and refreshing, an old blend he used to like sipping while working in the long, stultifying evening. He sets a glass down for Loklear to take, and then turns to face her.

"Incandescent Butterfly was a slave in Ysyr. Her lords and masters exploited her talents, her intellect and skill at craftsmanship, for their own ends," he says, slowly and evenly. "To this day she judges her worthiness by the work she can do, and the perfection of her craft. She drives herself to the edge of exhaustion, because if she does not, part of her says that it is because she is weak, and worthless, and in danger of being discarded. I had to all but order her to take a break, and she relies on that familiar of hers to make sure she eats and sleeps on a regular basis."

He takes a sip of the drink, then sets it down.

"Tell me, Miss Loklear. Did you know these things about her?" he says, voice mild, gaze assessing.

She steps forward to take the glass, but quickly moves back again, keeping most of the room between them and meeting his words with a stubborn stare.

"I'm not an idiot," she responds sharply, "We talked, a lot. And I dreamed about her plenty. I've seen how hard she works. And how much it benefits you. The last few months, gossamer is flowing through the Dreaming Sea. Money and favors and magic flow back here, to you, and to your stores scattered around. I don't get rich, if I convince her how beautiful she is. How much she matters, how little anyone else does. I killed a kaiju," and she swaps from Firetongue to Riverspeak, using a word referring to the monsters that occasionally plague riverside merchant settlements, "Just so she'd be able to attune to the demesne it was feeding off of. I dug up the Hearthstone for her. But, sure. Tell me about your token gestures. We both know how easy it is to influence her. We both know you haven't tried to stop her."

He can hear, in her words, that her affection for Butterfly is real. Is something she feels intensely about, something sweeping her away even now, guiding the majority of her actions.

He can also tell that, if she thought he would stand between them, she would happily murder him. It's the love that Prasad sings of in tragic song, the passions of the Fire Aspects who murder those closest to them and must find heroic redemption on the fields of battle, cursed by the same intensity that saw them born as gods in human flesh to begin with.

It's also not new, she speaks of a passion that has built over months, of preparations she made to have important gifts to offer. It is something she has thought about, dreamed about, and apparently put significant effort into, even before revealing herself.

"Stopping her wouldn't make her happy," Juran sighs. "She loves her work. When she creates wonders, it fills her with a kind of joy I don't think I've seen anywhere save the expressions of pilgrims at journey's apex. If I took her away from that - even if I could - she would be miserable."

This woman loves Butterfly, that much is clear... but more than that, he can see the pain that drives her. The bone-deep, instinctive belief that he will hurt her, that everyone and anyone will hurt her, unless she gives them a reason not to. He's seen it before, in slaves and those otherwise oppressed.

"You love her, that much is clear," he says after a few moments. "And you think I might hurt her, is that it? That I might already be hurting her."

Loklear stares at him, and anger flashes in amber eyes, at the concern in his words, at the calm reason he speaks with, at the composure he maintains. And, possibly, anger at the truth he's touched on in her heart.

"I think you benefit from that being true," she replies sharply, "I think she will build you an empire because you were passingly decent to her. And I know that you're cleverer and more powerful than you appear, and that makes you dangerous. I think you could very, very easily manipulate her indefinitely, so I will make it clear: you cannot drive me away from her. I don't care how clever your games become. I don't care what threats you turn out to leverage. I'm not leaving her and you can't make me."

She stands near the door, unlocked, but still manages to convey all the anger and fury of a cornered predator as she glares at Juran.

"...no, I don't imagine you will," Juran says, his eyes briefly going wide as the sheer menace in the woman's stance and voice gets to him. "Very well. An alternative."

On his brow, the crowned sun flickers, the mark of the Eclipse. The strongest tool at his command.

"You've heard the legends, yes? The oaths that my kind can sanctify, that bind even gods and demons and things of the underworld," he explains, watching the young woman by the door warily, as if she might lunge for his throat. "I would be willing to swear one to you now, an oath that I will not harm Incandescent Butterfly while she remains in my service, nor prevent her from leaving if she desires."

Loklear stares at him for long moments, as if she doesn't understand the words. As if he suddenly swapped to a tongue she has never heard of. Her eyes narrow, and a silver crescent moon erupts onto her brow as she stares in silence, trying to understand, to dig through any hidden intentions he might hold.

"Why?" she demands, without fury, and with intensity, as the light of the Lunar Anathema floods the room.

"Because there is a Lunar Anathema that might tear my throat out if I do not?" Juran says, a touch dryly, a hint of real fear in his eyes, "To whit, I would have you swear in turn. That you will not harm me or mine so long as I honour my end of the oath, nor Butterfly by word or deed."

It's the expected answer, the logical answer, the one that makes total sense in Loklear's experience. He is afraid she might hurt him, and so he offers this as a bargain, to protect himself and what he holds dear. And this much is certainly true.

And yet... underneath that, there is another truth. The truth that he cares about Butterfly, truly means her no harm nor intends to control her, and this is the only way he thinks she will believe him.

"...what stops you from killing her, if she leaves your service," Loklear asks, frowning heavily, as her mind works through the oath he offers and asks of her, "What defines harm, word, and deed? Will I be fucked for hurting her feelings because I didn't know she liked something stupid? Will I be cursed if I kill someone fucking with you, but it turned out to be your brother? This Oath could geld me, but leaves you free to take vengeance at your leisure. Why shouldn't I rip your heart out right now," and one hand briefly turns to an eagle's vicious talons, before becoming a human's hand once more, "For offering me such an obvious trap?"

The words are deceptively casual, as she works through possible failure points, and her eyes flash angrily, but she doesn't act, and the anger seems to quickly fade.

"For pity's sake, girl, I'm not some damned fae," Juran grunts, a flash of annoyance crossing his face, "But fine. Let us say... I add a clause of a year and a day after she leaves my service, and we both add 'knowingly' to our parts. To avoid accidents."

"If you think only fae are capable of spite," Loklear sneers, "Then you have clearly not met many men."

She pauses, looking him over, the cut of his clothing, the dyes and the expensive fabrics visible where the Manticore's hide does not cover.

"Or you've been rich your whole life, and never had to deal with someone like you without power."

Her eyes move back to his face, challengingly.

She waits for him to respond, as she clearly weighs the pros and cons of the offered oath, buying further time.

"You might be surprised. Perhaps, if we become allies, I will tell you of my life before this place," Juran says dryly, thinking of Prasad and what it means to have power. "Now. The oath. Are the terms satisfactory?"

"...no," she says, finally, shaking her head, "You're better at this than me. Older, smarter, more dangerous. Hang your Oath, and hang you too. If you fuck with us, you die. If I go and fuck you over, you have evidence you can use against me. We're both capable of hurting each other. We have a reason not to act with hostility. That's all the Oath you'll get from me."

Juran blinks, then allows himself a brief chuckle. "Well, I shall take that as a compliment."

He picks up the drink again, taking another long sip while he gathers his wits and calms himself once again. "Will you be staying? With Butterfly, I mean, here in my lands. I can have a room set aside for you, and instruct the guards to allow you passage if so."

"I live where I want," Loklear says flatly, still staring through narrowed eyes, "If I'm not with Butterfly, I'll just turn into a bird and sleep in a tree. Or trick a palace room out of the Earl. And none of your guards could stop me from sneaking in if I wanted, not even the Air Aspect."

"It was an offer born of courtesy, nothing more," Juran shrugs, "But as you wish. On which note - are you open for contract work? I'd pay well for someone of your skills, and it would aid Butterfly and I both if you were working with us, rather than just circling overhead."

There's another long pause, as she focuses her gaze on him, the silver light intensifying as she does so, wrapping her in a gentle aura of silver light.

"...yes," she finally says, her expression softening slightly as she sees no hostility in him, no rage or ill-intent, "But I don't have consistent prices, so don't expect them. I'll ask what I want, and you can pay or don't pay, I don't care," she adds stubbornly, her eyes daring him to challenge her on it.

"Hm. Fairly standard terms, for a skilled freelancer," Juran replies, unable to resist needling the girl just a little bit. "Well, here's one for you. We need a means of staving off hostile armies that isn't a swarm of hobgoblins. Bring me something like that, or point me in the direction of an answer, and I'll pay you whatever you damn well like."

Irritation flashes in her eyes at the needling, but her expression turns thoughtful as she considers the issue, the presented problem distracting her from her issues with Juran.

"That's a tall ask, but tons of shit like that in the Dreaming Sea," she frowns, "Considered Necromancy yet? You can raise armies pretty fast. Megafauna is pretty good, too, if you can hypnotize them. I know there's some old game reserves pretty overrun."

She begins pacing slightly as she keeps thinking.

"Could probably come up with some big weapon with Butterfly, like the Sword of Creation. Demon pacts, too. I think the Tyrant Lizard Avatar lives across the sea, you could probably make some deal there-"

She stops, shakes her head, turns and glares.

"If you use any of those ideas without paying me, I'll break your arm," she threatens, and then turns to leave, pulling the door open, "And I'll keep thinking. I'll let you know when I decide on a price so you can start saving up."

She steps through the door, intending to stalk off on that final, dramatic note.

Juran lifts his glass in silent toast to the young woman, watching as she swaggers off into the wide world beyond.

"First Marxom, now this. Butterfly, my dear," he murmurs quietly to himself after she has gone, "Your choice of paramours is beginning to worry me."

**

I am curious what folks think of Loki!

 

[Estro]

Could probably come up with some big weapon with Butterfly, like the Sword of Creation

Click to shrink...

Now, Loki, I know you love Butterfly, but it'd take her at least a few years to build a replica Sword of Creation.

 

[Nervaqus987]

Huh, I forgot how hostile Loki was to Juran.

Probably because they don't interact much.

 

[emeralis00]

Now, Loki, I know you love Butterfly, but it'd take her at least a few years to build a replica Sword of Creation.

Click to shrink...

Honestly the bigger problem for Butterfly would be resources, not time. She's missing so many components, some of which are unique or near unique.

Spoiler

The one she knows for a fact is part of the sword of creation only has one other instance in existence, and its been lost for centuries, if not millenia.

She could make a decent regional scale weapon though.

 

[Kaiya]

Now, Loki, I know you love Butterfly, but it'd take her at least a few years to build a replica Sword of Creation.

Click to shrink...

look, it's just a big sword, how hard could it be

Huh, I forgot how hostile Loki was to Juran.

Probably because they don't interact much.

Click to shrink...

Loki doesn't like older men, in general, it's not really a Juran thing, though it didn't help that he saw right through her XD

Honestly the bigger problem for Butterfly would be resources, not time. She's missing so many components, some of which are unique or near unique.

Spoiler

The one she knows for a fact is part of the sword of creation only has one other instance in existence, and its been lost for centuries, if not millenia.

She could make a decent regional scale weapon though.

Click to shrink...

Yeah <3

 

[Kaiya]

Butterfly's workshop was ablaze, not with ordinary fire but the flames of her anima. Her towering anima banner was absent, as Butterfly was not working at her full strength, only just enough to finish Marxom's daiklave half a year ahead of schedule. It would be done as Resplendent Wood began, and no sooner.

Butterfly was singing a Ysyri work song to herself as she let the daiklave warm in the flames, working on small projects as she waited. Aleu provided an... interesting accompaniment to the song, singing along offbeat (cute, though it would have gotten them both punished back in Ysyr). Starless Sky had requested some time to do other activities, but Butterfly wasn't too concerned, he could be at her side instantly if she had need.

Were anyone to look closely, they would see that her creations were startlingly eclectic. Hammers, saws, chisels, pots and pans, and cooking utensils, and even vials and beakers from a small glassworking station in the corner. Every single piece was a masterwork, even down to the least stirring spoon.

The door to the workshop opens, and shining bronzed sunlight reflects in bright beams off a polished steel breastplate. Marxom steps in, tall enough that his head nearly brushes the top of the doorframe, his heavy chopping sword hanging at his side, a dagger sheathed opposite it, another in one of the fine leather boots he wears. Each piece of equipment is a masterwork, but only the breastplate compares to Butterfly's own creations, because only his breastplate was touched by her artifice. One gauntleted hand rises to shade his eyes from the blazing sunlight, his perfect sharp features made even more pale in comparison to the deep bronze of the anima light, the pulses of black within them occasionally casting him in an ominous approach, lovely features taking a sinister tone when cast in the strange black glow.

A brief, irritated flicker of a glance goes to Aleu at Butterfly's side, as he notices her offbeat contributions giving the song a more frantic beat than it is meant to have, throwing off the timing of it, but he says nothing, forcing his eyes away from the little spirit, and towards the daiklave warming in the flames.

He walks softly up to it, not interrupting Butterfly, as he approaches the flames, his dark eyes blazing like coals with reflected firelight as he looks into the gossamer structure, for the dreams that glow white like blazing steel, made nearly alive by the heat of the flame, shining with the only hope the fae has ever known.

It took Butterfly a moment too long to notice Marxom entering. It was Aleu stuttering to a stop that caused her to turn in confusion. When she saw Marxom she felt a shiver, though not for the usual reason, as her emotions dipped into fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself and reassure that it was just Marxom.

"Hi Marxom, your daiklave is almost done. Another month left," she gestured, and light flared along the blade's length, brighter even than the forge's glow. The glow faded quickly into spots of glyphs and sigils, before returning to simple orange.

"It's beautiful," he says, after a moment, his voice soft, almost reverent. He reaches into the flames to run his hand along the top of the daiklave.

The flames heat his gauntlet, but he expresses no pain, and there is no indication he was injured by reaching into the forge as he withdraws his hand, still staring into the flames.

"My old blade was no half so beautiful," he says, still in that soft tone, though the reverence had become something like wistfulness, still not turning to face Butterfly, "I could not see my dreams so bright within it, even when it was completed. The gossamer did not hold such clear shape, the gaps in the design were obvious, unfilled. An Earth Aspect labored five years to make it for me, to clear all debts between us. Mere weeks have passed, and already your artifice exceeds his."

Butterfly preened under the compliments, "I put an extra amount of effort into it. Few even among the Sorcerer Lords would have anything rivaling this blade. I just felt I could go further with this one, and the material responded so well to me I couldn't help but push ahead."

Aleu, meanwhile, was pouting at Marxom interrupting the song, frustratedly kicking her legs out from where she was sitting.

"Your efforts shine," he says, turning to her and smiling gently, the expression painfully lovely on his face. The fire no longer blazes in his eyes, they instead reflect the brilliance of her anima, a bronze glow filling them with a warmth the fae would be incapable of summoning himself, "And I appreciate it. I have done you a disservice, I feel, that I have not said this before now. You labor on my behalf, but I have not visited, nor thanked you for your time and efforts."

Butterfly's heart beat rapidly, and her breathe caught in her throat. She didn't look away, eyes transfixed upon Marxom's face, "I was- it's- yeah. Thank you."

She felt her face burn, at a loss of what to say, "I'm glad you appreciate it."

"No, thank you," he smiles gently, either amused or skillfully conveying gentle amusement, "You are forging for me a wonder, my empty words coming weeks late are undeserving of your gratitude."

He still is not looking at Aleu, his gaze focused on Butterfly, perhaps deliberately, perhaps naturally.

The gentle smile fades slightly, becoming a more pensive expression.

"...you are drawn to me," he states, rather than asks, his tone measured, and not indicating his feelings on the matter, other than the slightest ghost of a smile pulling at his lips, "Attracted. That's what this is, your heartbeat, your expression, your stammer. I had nearly forgotten what the truth of it looked like, held sincerely."

Butterfly bit her lip, only now looking away from his face. She cursed her obviousness, hoping that she hadn't ruined Marxom's opinion of her.

Aleu meanwhile, let her feet drop. She was being ignored, which was a small mercy, but she disliked what was going on. Marxom was dangerous, even if he was fun to play with sometimes. Still, he wasn't paying attention to her, and not hiding his emotions from her. She focused on Marxom, his stance, what he did with his hands. Was this the moment he would try to take Butterfly? She had to know, and dredged up every quirk and offhand behavior she observed in Marxom over the past several months.

The face Marxom offers Butterfly indicates little, but Aleu does have a sense of his quirks, and he often goes out of his way to ignore her presence, something paying off for her now: Marxom was not aware of Butterfly's crush as a crush before now. It isn't how he feeds, and it isn't something he thinks about. She can tell that he's trying to decide what to do about this, and there is something calculating in his stance. He seems to be trying to decide if something would benefit him.

"Is it a problem?" Butterfly asked quietly of Marxom, "I hope its not a bother."

Aleu tensed. This was bad, this was really bad. She couldn't fight Marxom. She needed Starless Sky, but they weren't here, or Juran, or Five Lightning, or Mom. She remembered the reading she did for Butterfly about Marxom, and the decision he had to make.

Aleu inhaled, then ran up to grab Butterfly's arm possessively, to Butterfly's noise of surprise. She glared at Marxom, "Don't eat Butterfly."

Marxom blinks, his attention returning to Aleu. For a moment, there is genuine bafflement on his face.

"Little demon," he says, an annoyed edge in his voice, "I am not going to eat the artificer employed by my sworn liege who is currently in the process of crafting for me a greater wonder."

His tone softens as he turns back to Butterfly, the edge of annoyance vanishing from his voice.

"Nor do I find your attraction to be a bother," the faery knight adds, the gentle smile returning to his face, "No. I simply do not know what to do with it. I am not generally capable of such sentiment or feelings. They are not part of my nature, and so they are not something I have much experience with."

Amusement tinges his smile as he continues.

"I am also surprised that a Solar would hold such affections for a Raksha, but perhaps I shouldn't be. The ancient Solars chased all number of strange romances, after all."

Aleu's sudden interrupt distracted Butterfly from Marxom's everything, and she patted the little mez on the head. She didn't move to extricate her arm though, and let Aleu cling.

"You've been very nice to me, protecting me, marveling at my work out of appreciation of art, not greed. Of course I hold affection for you, how could I not?"

Aleu huffed and held tighter.

"Because I'm a monster, of course," Marxom says simply, as if stating the sky was blue, "A predator of dreams, of souls."

He is smiling, though, genuinely pleased.

"Most of the Exalted hold that favor or loyalty from the fae holds no value. That because we are soulless monsters, all debts are void, all promises null. Lemane Heartsong's principled refusal of this is why I like him. Your open heart, however dangerous, is why I like you," he smiles at her, and again the expression is achingly beautiful.

Standing by Butterfly, watching for the tells, Aleu can see how it fails to reach his eyes. How they remain soulless, empty, and hungry.

"If you wish a romance with me, Incandescent Butterfly, you may have it," he continues, simply and sincerely, "I do not have a heart to offer you, but I can fulfill your fantasies, nonetheless. I am as fond of you as I can be of any creature, and it would not be a terrible labor to bond myself to you. Speak the word, and you may have me, however you wish, for as long as you wish."

The words are sweet, the smile soft, his features achingly lovely, and his eyes so terribly, terribly empty.

Butterfly blinked in surprise at the offer, "I would agree to this. Though, I am also in a relationship with a lunar. While I know they wouldn't mind, they encouraged me after all... If that gives you concern for your own safety, then I would understand. I would hate to see you killed."

Aleu would be telling Juran and Mom all about this tonight. Then do a lot of divinations.

"I am not overly attached to my own existence," Marxom replies, and seems intrigued more than anything, "I was unaware of this Lunar's presence, which speaks well of their subtlety. Or of their capacity to terrorize my spies, at least," and he's smiling again, "I shall risk their ire. You are worth it, after all."

There is no special magic to the words, but he says them just right, and Butterfly feels them pluck at her heart, nonetheless.

Butterfly felt Marxom's words warm her heart even more, sending waves of giddiness through her. She did deserve this. It was what she wanted.

Aleu's quiet growling drew her attention, and she tugged Aleu in a hug, "still, please be careful... and uh, please be nicer to Aleu. She cares for me a lot."

"I shall try, though I will note I am not the rude one, in our relationship," he says dryly, glancing at Aleu, "She interrupts and accuses. I play card games and suppress snide remarks."

"Mrrrr," Aleu hid her face in Butterfly's chest, deciding to ignore Marxom. Butterfly held onto her comfortingly.

Butterfly's heart fluttered as she tried to decide what to do next, "Okay. Um, well I will be making dinner in a few hours. You're invited. I have a bit more work to do for today on your daiklave before I let it rest for the night."

"My instinct is to step forward to kiss you goodbye, but I feel the little one would find my proximity distressing at the moment," Marxom notes, with elegantly theatrical sorrow, and then bows with gallant formality, "So I shall instead bow, and assure you of my presence come dinner."

Butterfly perked up happily, "I look forward to your arrival."

"I shall look forward to it," Marxom smiles, and then leaves towards whatever other duties were waiting for him.

 

[Kaiya]

Aleu was at the hive Butterfly built for her bee friends. Despite Butterfly's desire to keep Aleu in sight at all times, the swarm was still at risk, so she had chores to do. It'd be some time before any of the queen larvae were ready, and until then she was making sure the swarm was happy and safe. Plus she had to make sure the other hives in the area played nice and were free of diseases. Then she had to make sure that everyone knew not to try to steal the honey, and after that... Well, the point was that she had a lot of things to do.

She may also have been upset at Butterfly, but Aleu told Starless, who assured her that they would watch over Butterfly while she worked, which made her happier. So maybe she wasn't super mad, just kinda mad.

She leaned against the hive stand with a sigh, prophecies she gathered that day finally written down in her journal.

A large insect flies over, and it is not a bee. Yellow striped in black, but with a nastier sleekness to its body, the hornet hovers near the hive, waiting to see if Aleu notices it.

Aleu frowned, holding up a hand for the hornet to land on, "who are you? You're not of my swarm."

This wasn't supposed to be a bad day, so maybe this would be the good to balance out the bad.

The hornet flies over in a series of loops before landing on her hand.

Many who are not accustomed to the patterns of insect life might miss it, but Aleu sees the letters the complex loops form.

Hi Aleu. I'm Loki.

"Ah! You're Butterfly's friend!" Aleu clapped at the display of skill necessary to write via flight, "what are you doing here?"

The hornet flies up, does a series of loops that spell out She told you!

And then there's no hornet, but rather a smiling child of Aleu's age, with wide amber eyes glittering brightly, pale skin and a button nose, her hair running over her shoulders and down her back in long dark curls, and dressed in a blue shirt with brass buttons, white leggings and boots rising up to her knees.

"I thought she was hiding me from everyone," the girl, Loki, beams at Aleu, "I'm glad she told you, though. I hear you're the one who's been taking care of her, making sure she doesn't starve herself, so I wanted to make sure we got off on the right foot."

Her expression flickers a bit, some embarrassment filtering in.

"Sorry I couldn't be a bee, but I didn't think you'd be happy if I killed one just to introduce myself."

Aleu smiled and moved to hug Loki, "Thank you for not killing my bees. I made her tell me when she got back. I saw you in the tortoise shells, and the chicken liver, and the bee swarm. You're Butterfly's friend, she met you on her bestest day ever!"

Loki returns the hug, squeezing tightly, only being careful to not accidentally hurt Aleu, before pulling back with a big smile.

"No problem!" she says cheerfully, "And it was the bestest day ever! We had a lot of fun, and even found a really cool rock in a lake! I dunno what you mean, exactly, by seeing me, does that mean you can see the future? I know some people read tea leaves and chicken guts and stuff, but I never knew a spirit who did that!"

The girl's emotional energy seems calibrated to Aleu's, matching her enthusiasm and register easily, rocking back and forth in place on her heels, looking for all the world like a child with too much energy to stand still.

Aleu nodded vigorously, "Mhm! I'm really good at it."

She scrambled for where her journal had fallen to the ground, and flipped through it. She held it open to the pages she had wrote the day she began seeing hints of Butterfly's Friend. Up at the top of the page was a double underlined MOON?!, followed by more hints and details she had discovered that day after intense divinations, "see? This is what I found out."

"Huh!" Loki exclaims, examining the notes, "Neat! Some of this is pretty spooky accurate! Some is pretty funny wrong, though. Pretty sure the snakes were a metaphor, I killed a few magistrates on my way down here. Uh, the politic ones, not the assassin ones."

Aleu turned the journal to read what she wrote, then squinted at Loki, "are you sure? Maybe you forgot?"

"I never forget," Loki says seriously, shaking her head and sending her curls bouncing, "Oh, unless I was the snake. I turned into one to choke a god out for being a jerk. But that wouldn't account for the clouds, and it was raining when I ate the magistrate."

"Hrrrm," she glanced down at her journal and pulled out her pen to write, Magistrates are snakes.

She looked back to Loki, foot now tapping restlessly. Loki's energy was infectious, "want me to show you how to divine with bees?"

"Sure!" Loki chirps, "I like learning new stuff! Also, you should tell me more about Butterfly, too, 'cause I wanna be her best friend and Juran thinks you know her best. Alsoalso, show me the tortoise trick, too!"

"Oh! Yes. We'll need to catch a tortoise though, and go to Butterfly's forge since we need a hot poker."

She grabbed Loki's hand, and began tugging her along, pointing out portions of the swarm flying out to get more pollen, interspersed with talking about Butterfly.

"The stars said she was supposed to be friends with everyone," Aleu confided, "so the Sorter Lords made everyone hate her instead. She's got the Wheel and the Treasure, except her Treasure is upside down now. Its why she's very lonely."

Loki allows herself to be dragged along, nodding at Aleu's words.

"I like that word for them," she announces seriously, "The Sorter Lords. That's what I'm gonna call them from now on. You're good with words!"

Behind the praise, her eyes glitter as her mind races, taking this information to account and picturing the expression on the faces of the Lords of Ysyr when she formally introduces one as such, as well as wracking her brain for what she knows about the Ship's Wheel and the Treasure Trove.

Not enough.

"What's the Wheel?" she asks bluntly, still smiling, "And actually what's the Treasure, too. I don't know those ones so good."

"Well the wheel is about boat people. I dunno why, but it is. Butterfly doesn't know how to sail a boat. Its about hope and persistence. It means she's not gonna stop, even if she hates where she is at. The treasure trove is about being smart, but not like, mean smart? People were supposed to come to her to learn what to do, but they won't now, because she can't reach out, and she doesn't like if other people copy her. Because her treasure is upside down."

She shrugged, she couldn't make the stars not be upside down for Butterfly, but maybe Loki could.

"Huh," Loki says thoughtfully, "Yeah, I can probably help with that."

She squeezes Aleu's hand.

"Thanks, this is good information!"

Aleu giggled, "Butterfly will like that. She really likes you."

Aleu frowned in consideration, then tugged Loki closer to whisper, "Marxom visited her today. Asked if she wanted him to be her friend, like you. Except he didn't know about you until Butterfly mentioned."

"That's good, 'cause I like Butterfly!" Loki says, beaming, and then her smile fades slightly, tinged with curiosity, as Aleu pulls her closer, turning to a brief frown as she whispers.

"Yeaaaah," she grimaces, "I was avoiding that one. He's sharp. I hate the smart ones. He's not a drama queen, like most fae. He's a plotter."

Then she shrugs.

"Well, either I'll have to kill him, or I won't," she says simply, "No point worrying about it."

Aleu frowned and nodded, "I'm keeping an eye on this, but I can't do much by myself, and Butterfly is already a bit sad that I don't like him. He said he won't eat her but because he follows Juran and Butterfly is making him a sword. I trust you more than him to help Butterfly though."

Loki smiles, wide and mischievous, and throws her hair back to preen for a moment, and then rapidly she bursts, green scales and thick muscle erupting from her, her body elongating and extending, falling to all fours and turning to face Aleu with a massive tusked snout. A crocodile with limbs that suggest it hunts more like a lion seems to smile at Aleu, showing off its many, many teeth. On a normal animal, the expression might be fearsome, but the crocodile manages to turn it into something almost charming.

Aleu jumped at the sudden change but smiled and clapped, "that's really cool! I can do this!"

She made her face go flat and featureless.

The crocodile shifts back into the elfin little girl, who smiles and claps her own hands.

"That's also really cool!" she beams, "Very spooky! I bet you could make someone trip over their feet running if you did that while doing a little kid routine!"

The prismatic light of her armor asserted itself again as she restored her face to its human seeming, "I can flatten as a blob too, but it makes the armor not fit right. Maybe we can have some fun later."

"Ooooooh, yeah!" Loki nods rapidly, "I got lotsa little shapes, so I bet there's tons of places we could sneak into!"

A flicker of confusion crosses her face, and then realization.

"Oh, right! But, that monster shape I used, that's what I'll eat Marxom with, if he hurts Butterfly."

"Good," Aleu agreed, with arms crossed, "I already told him not to try eating her."

"Good," Loki nods seriously, crossing her own arms unconsciously to mimic Aleu's pose, "That saves time, he's been warned, so I don't gotta warn him, I'll just rip him to pieces once he crosses the line."

Aleu nodded firmly, then paused, "oh right. The tortoise. We need to go find one to get its shell."

"Oh!" Loki exclaims, an idea suddenly occurring to her, "There's monster turtles in the river! Would those work?"

Aleu considered, "we're gonna need a really big fire to crack the shell after."

"Pfft," Loki waves her hand dismissively, "The day I can't start a really big fire is the day I, well, I don't have a sword to fall on, but it'd be a weird day!"

"Then lets find one of the monster turtles!" Aleu declared, already thinking about what question to carve on the shell.

"Yeah!" Loki beams, and then shifts her form into that of a massive owl, feathers a deep grey and eyes wide and amber-shaded, glittering with excitement. The owl is taller than Juran, and broader than the Earl, and leans low for Aleu to climb up on it, indicating that she should with a glance.

Hop on! Flying is faster!

Aleu made an excited shriek and climbed on. Butterfly carried her once, and that was really fun. Loki was so cool.

Loki flaps her wings with enough force to propel them swiftly into the air, the downdraft casting a great burst of wind around them, enough to scatter the bees if they hadn't been clinging to Aleu's arm, or hiding in the hive from the Lunar, flying at great speed, off towards the river...

 

[Indivisible]

I followed the link from the Keris thread and WOW does Juran make a lot of oaths! Was that statement to the horned woman another oath? I feel like he's just getting started.

Butterfly's an interesting character. You don't see a lot of self esteem issues like that in fiction. I'm liking the God-of-stories-Loki expy as a love interest for Butterfly, who immediately figured out that mezkeruby are the best.

How is Butterfly sprouting Butterfly wings, since it doesn't seem to be linked to an Artifact?

 

[emeralis00]

How is Butterfly sprouting Butterfly wings, since it doesn't seem to be linked to an Artifact?

Click to shrink...

Her wings are an evocation of her sorcerous initiation.