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The Last Daughter; Dragon-Blooded Sorcery School Quest

Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
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A Sworn Kinship Oath isn't really shackling someone to you or entrapping them -- any party can break it at any time, and the bond breaks automatically if any party outright betrays the others. It makes doing this feel like shit, though, and the Realm takes this relationship extremely seriously and looks askance at you if you shatter a Hearth without good reason.
 
On second thought, changing my vote. While I'd like Sola to join, I think she'd feel betrayed accepting and only later finding out about Maia's identity and that we already knew.

[x] Do not Invite Tepet Usala Sola to join your Hearth
 
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Vote closed, Interlude 6 01
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    • Scheduled vote count started by Gazetteer on Aug 11, 2024 at 1:12 AM, finished with 62 posts and 38 votes.
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    Interlude 6: Sun, Moon, and Stars 02
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    • Invite Sola to join your Hearth: 28

    Do not invite Sola: 10

    The Cerulean Lute of Harmony, headquarters of the Bureau of Destiny's Division of Serenity

    Yu-Shan, the heavenly city

    Two weeks ago

    Singular Grace, Chosen of Serenity, carefully sets down her brush, starry eyes scanning over the thank you note she's just drafted, searching out the slightest error in spelling, or flaw in formation. She frowns critically, but accepts it as good enough — Old Realm was really not meant for calligraphy, but at this point Grace is just too used to ink.

    She leaves the missive on her desk to dry, watching the clock on the wall opposite to her. Fifteen minutes before her next appointment — enough time to relax for a few moments. Instead, Grace searches for something to organise.

    As the office of a junior Sidereal Exalt, Grace's is not particularly impressive, by Yu-Shan standards. She's lately enough from Creation to appreciate the luxury of the cozy little space, though. The walls and furnishings are of a deep, burnished mahogany, the wood cut into fanciful designs of flowers and woodland creatures. The floor is covered by a plush carpet in a brilliant shade of blue, the ceiling painted in imitation of the night sky, complete with tiny glowing pinpricks of light to represent the stars, Venus enjoying pride of place among them. The supernatural lights are particularly prominent at the moment — Jupiter took the lead in the Games of Divinity earlier that day, heralded by ominous clouds rolling over the sky over all of Yu-Shan. Grace has been trying not to watch the many mysterious sky fires that have blossomed outside her window in the time since.

    Grace has done her best to make the space hers over the past year, having reconciled herself to her new life. The Varangian-style mechanical clock that rests on a shelf above the door would have cost a fortune in Creation, but here, the ambrosia of her salary goes a very long way. It ticks steadily away, sapphire-adorned hands standing out smartly against a bright silvery face. One wall is dominated by a large painting of the Imperial City at dusk, the golden light of the vanishing sun painting the towers and great temples of the city in breathtaking shades. She'd been intensely guilty at first at the purchase of such blatantly iconic art, but it's difficult to become a Sidereal without one's relationship to the Immaculate Philosophy shifting at least slightly, if not actually changing. The painting reminds her of home in a bittersweet way that she enjoys, most days. The wall behind her desk is host to a bookshelf filled with useful volumes, each bound to match one another in brown leather, meticulously organised.

    On a small side table sits a beautiful, robin's egg blue tea set, spotless and awaiting use. Grace had found it in a nearby market the month before. The cups are unmistakably the ones from the vision she'd received when she Exalted, when she'd been shown an older version of herself sitting behind this very desk in this very office, kindly explaining what was about to happen to her.

    The stack of papers on one side of the desk properly ordered, lined up, and weighted down by smooth, black stones, Grace rises with exactly ten minutes to spare. She checks herself in the small mirror beside the door, tucks a curl of hair behind one ear, and decides she's presentable enough. It's going to be hard not to feel overdressed no matter what she does with herself, considering who she's been directed to meet with.

    Grace pushes open her door, stepping out into the blue-tiled space of the hall beyond, heartbreakingly delicate music immediately drifting in from elsewhere in the Lute. There is always a performance going on somewhere here — a play, or a poetry recital, or a concert, if not several at once. The Maiden of Serenity's purview concerns human relationships and earthly pleasures of all kinds, happiness and the lack thereof. The arts fall very neatly into this in several ways.

    Grace's eyes fall on one of the the minor deities sitting at a nearby cluster of desks, serving as clerks for the Division of Serenity. The goddess sits up, looking at Grace attentively. Beneath her blue robes of office, Grace can see the remnants of plant theme — hair that shifts like a field of wheat in the breeze, skin a bright green, eyes like life-giving water. Grace has never asked, but in the two years she's worked for the Division, she's come to assume that the woman used to be a field goddess, once upon a time. "May I help you, my lady?" the goddess asks, her soft voice whispering like wind through plant stalks.

    "Yes. There's a missive drying in my office," Grace tells her. "If you please, once it has dried properly, I need it sealed and sent to the office of Priceless Gift, two floors up. This is slightly time sensitive." Priceless Gift had been extremely helpful to her over the past few months, in which Grace had been responsible for untangling a particularly thorny star-crossed romance. The sheltered son of a wealthy merchant had needed to fall in love with a common sailor, the match sealed with a marriage and a child. The sequence of events such a marriage will produce should ripple out and improve the prosperity of the region at large, in addition to reinforcing Fate through a destiny properly fulfilled.

    A goddess of fertility and surprise pregnancies from the Western Blessed Isle, Priceless Gift is very well politically connected within the Division of Serenities and beyond, and isn't the kind of woman whose assistance one takes for granted. The letter is necessary to demonstrate Grace's gratitude as well as to make it explicit that Grace now owes her several favours.

    The clerk dips her head. "Of course," she says. "It will be done within the hour."

    "Excellent," Grace says, "Thank you." She offers a polite half-bow, and proceeds down the hall at a brisk but unworried pace. A beguiling, mosaiced pattern unfolds underfoot, blue gemstones and brightly coloured tiles showing idealised scenes of mortal life. Sometimes, when dealing with deities and spirits in this way, there's still a part of Grace that balks at it, remembering the days when she would have shrunk away from them and tried to subtly hide behind Ambraea. It's almost a little disturbing, at times, how well she's acclimated to the life of a Celestial Bureaucrat.

    Almost as though she'd been destined for this all her life.

    Grace takes a left hand turn, stepping out onto a smaller side passage. In short order, it opens up onto a balcony encircling a grassy courtyard. Down below is the source of the music, a group of performers on a raised stage, spirits great and small looking on with pleased appreciation. A Wood elemental plays beautifully on a flute, the sound weaving delicately around the voice of a young man who stands at the edge of the stage, eyes closed and hands clasped before him in focused rapture. He's not a spirit, if Grace's expert assessment is correct, but the subtle motes of light that seem to float around him make her assume he's at least a god-blood.

    The performance is very much to her taste, and she might idle here to listen to the rest of the song at least, on another day. As is, she crosses to the far side of the balcony, and climbs a set of stairs to another level of the Cerulean Lute's sprawling complex, the stormy sky over heaven disappearing again beneath a ceiling painted with a scene of young lovers lost to passion. Grace always tries not to look too directly at it, despite the great skill that obviously went into its creation.

    The curving hallway that contains her destination is broad and airy, the interior of a short tower that protrudes gracefully from one section of the Lute's elaborately sculpted roof. Here, several senior Division members keep offices. The one she's here for is the second one from the stairs she came in on. A large, navy coloured door stands there, the name plate beside it reading Shajah Holok, Chosen of Serenity in Old Realm, several successively more archaic forms of High Realm, and, most surprising of all, Low Realm.

    Grace has arrived very nearly at the appointed time on the dot, less than a minute remaining with which to compose herself. Holok himself is one of the least intimidating elder Sidereals that Grace has had the pleasure of meeting, but there is still something a little nerve wracking about being summoned to see the senior-most Bronze Faction member in her division on such short notice.

    Briefly, she takes in the sight of a strange god in the guise of a very young Southern man, well-dressed, perched on the edge of an ornamental bench with his mottled brown wings folded up behind him. He's too engrossed in the book he's reading to take notice of Grace. It's not particularly strange to encounter a god she's never met before in the run of a day, however.

    Grace knocks on the door in front of her, and receiving no instruction otherwise, she pulls it open and steps inside. A Sidereal elder in good standing, who has been with the Bureau of Destiny for centuries, receives considerable perks above their more junior peers. How and to what degree they wear this on their sleeve varies wildly between individuals, however, some embracing all the decadent splendour heaven has to offer, others preferring to wrap themselves in the trappings of a more humble existence. Holok is very much the latter.

    The man himself kneels by a low table near the centre of the room. Shajah Holok is short, compact, and muscular, his hair and beard wild and dark. Most Sidereals adopt finery from the culture that raised them for day to day clothing. Grace herself has taken to dressing like a low ranked Realm patrician lady. She's never seen Holok wear anything but robes that wouldn't have looked out of place on an ailing peasant man, however — the one he wears today may have been red once, but has faded toward a nondescript pink, ragged at the sleeves and hems from long use.

    Holok smiles when he sees Grace. His eyes are the colour of a clear blue sky. "I had a feeling you'd be right on the dot," he says.

    "I try to be, sir," Grace says, bowing slightly.

    "Oh, sit down and let's talk," he says, waving off the niceties, "this isn't a formal occasion, Grace."

    The office is large, but spartan and airy, the few pieces of furniture simple and sturdy. One wall is largely taken up by a large set of windows looking out over Yu-Shan. Ordinarily at this time of day, they would flood the entire space with pleasant sunlight. Today, they just offer a commanding view of the eerie, Jovian-influenced sky. Another wall bears a line of wall scrolls,a number of selections from the Immaculate Texts, most old enough to be originals. Beneath them is an indoor garden, miniature trees and pleasant-smelling flowers. The floor underfoot is unpretentious wood. It's hard not to be put at ease here, despite everything.

    They aren't alone, though. A woman perches brazenly on the sill of one of the windows, lounging there like she owns the place, regarding Grace with sharp, yellow eyes. Another Sidereal, this one a Harbinger from the Division of Journeys.

    "You know Stinging Nettle?" Holok asks.

    "Not personally," Grace admits. She offers the woman another bow. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she says, before following Holok's earlier instruction to take a seat, choosing a floor mat a conversational distance away from his.

    "Yeah, likewise," the Harbinger agrees, sketching something between a wave and a salute. She smiles at Grace, sitting up fractionally, but there's somehow very little comfort in either gesture. Stinging Nettle is a woman somewhere in her late twenties with a distinctly Southern cast to her features, complexion a warm bronze, black hair cut strikingly short. "You were a recluse for most of your first year, and then I've been busy in Creation for the past while — there was this whole trade crisis to see to along the Violet Coast. You know how it is." Her voice is slow, amiable, Flametongue accent thick as honey.

    Something in her tone makes Grace cautious as she asks: "I hadn't been keeping track of that part of the world," she admits. "Did you prevent the crisis?"

    Nettle scoffs a laugh, one corner her mouth twitching up into a more severe sort of smile. "Well, prevented a few fucking things, at least." Grace has to force herself not to flinch at the coarse language.

    Looking at Stinging Nettle, Grace is abruptly and, perhaps unfairly, put in mind of the stray dogs who populate the quiet alleyways of the Imperial City: lean, slinking beasts, friendly one moment, biting the next. Whatever they need to be. Even Nettle's dress — perfectly tailored, ambrosia-worked linen richly dyed in a many-coloured Zephyrite style — sits on her narrow frame like something she's pilfered from a richer woman's closet. Grace does her best to banish the impression, but something about the other woman distinctly sets her on edge.

    "There's tea," Holok says, gesturing to the table. There's a pot and three cups there — metal cups, Grace notes with a private note of disapproval. But she's had enough past experiences with Holok's preferred variety of tea that it's hard to muster up much feeling about it. She pours for herself — Holok already has one.

    "Thank you," Grace says, bracing herself as she takes a sip. The acrid taste of cheap, over-boiled tea hits her mouth like a slap. She forces herself to swallow it, keeping her expression pleasant, even as Holok downs his own with all evident enthusiasm. She's too well-raised to even consider insulting what a host provides, particularly a host who is also a senior Bureau member.

    "Did you always like that shit, or did your sense of taste just sort of atrophy when you hit a thousand years old?" Nettle asks, making no attempt to go claim a cup of her own.

    Holok laughs, loud and unreserved, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge the outburst. Grace resigns herself to pretend to be enjoying it even more than she already is. "Right, though," he says, sobering up, "brass tacks. You've spent a lot of time in the Northern and Central Blessed Isle, in the mountains, yes?"

    "The Port of Chanos, mostly," Grace says, "but, yes, I've been outside the city, and in the mountains in Chanos Prefecture and some of its neighbours. I can speak the local dialects."

    Holok nods. "There's a Solar in Ventus Prefecture," he says, without further preamble. "They didn't Exalt there, we think it's one of the ones that escaped the Imperial Manse." He sighs, his thoughts turning briefly to larger problems. "That woman causes problems even when she's not around to do it in person."

    Grace feels a twist of anxiety in the pit of her stomach, the way she always does when someone speaks about the Scarlet Empress in such a way. "Has a Hunt been organised?" she asks.

    "The Immaculate Order and House Sesus are cooperating to do that," Holok says. "Which is always going to be a strain, given how Sesus is, but we can hope the Dynasts come through on this at least."

    "I'm going down to play guide," Nettle says, still on her windowsill. She grins suddenly. "Leading the 'righteous authorities' through the mountains to track down a dangerous outlaw's still got some real novelty, for me. The shoe being on the other foot like this really helps remind me that I've moved up in the world."

    Grace has heard that Stinging Nettle used to be a criminal, some variety of mountain bandit who killed and robbed travelers with a vicious gang. She had been a little startled, at first, to think that one of the Maidens would Exalt a low criminal. She's less naive, now, but there's an uncomfortable lack of shame or contrition in Nettle's voice.

    "You still spend half your time getting people lost and luring them into danger," Holok days says, giving Nettle a weary look.

    "Yeah, but only the ones who were destined for it," Nettle says, unoffended. "Sometimes, a caravan's just gotta leave one place and then vanish into the fucking desert. Can't all be wondrous, life-affirming adventures. Someone's gotta do that."

    It's not too dissimilar, in pure principle, from Joybringers having to destroy relationships destined to fail, or deny someone happiness that would come at the expense of too much. Still, those things are at least usually much less life-threatening than deliberately stranding people in the middle of the desert. At least when Grace hears her colleagues from the Division of Endings describe this kind of thing, they usually make some pretense of treating the subject with actual gravity.

    "I'm to go with her?" Grace asks, looking between Nettle and Holok. The prospect seems less appealing with every minute she spends in Stinging Nettle's company.

    "Yes, that's the shape of it," Holok agrees. "When she really tries, she can manage not offending Dynasts everytime she opens her mouth, believe it or not, but she's not from the Isle, and she doesn't know the Dynasty half as well as you do." Perhaps seeing Grace's trepidation, he adds: "There's too much happening at once, we're spread too thin right now. Chejop told me himself that you can handle yourself in an actual fight by now, if it comes to that. Nettle will look out for you."

    "Sure, right," Nettle says, agreeing flippantly enough to inspire exactly no confidence. "As long as she doesn't crumble to dust from being away from her desk for too long. I can't do anything about that."

    "I have done field work before," Grace says, stiffly.

    "Don't take it so seriously, it was a joke," Nettle says, waving a placating hand. She winces at a sharp look from Holok. "Sorry, forget I said it."

    "Very well, then," Grace says, forcing herself to move past her irritation. The assessment of her skills from Chejop Kejak is a pleasant surprise despite everything. After the previous summer and the impromptu meeting he'd invited her to in the Imperial City, she had been surprised when he'd continued to take a personal interest in her career. Even more surprised when he'd taken it upon himself to instruct her in martial arts, considering how busy he famously is. Not that it had turned out to take up very much of his time — there are advanced techniques to stretch an instant into far more than an instant, as it would happen.

    She tries not to think about the last overly much. It had been as unpleasant as it had been useful.

    "I am flattered to hear you say that," Grace tells Holok, ignoring the rest. "I understand. When do we depart?" The Bronze Faction is willing to provide resources, favourable positions on conventions and destiny planning committees, avenues for career advancement, and vast political connections within the Celestial Bureaucracy — however, these things come in exchange for advancing their political agenda in heaven and on Creation both. This includes things like assisting the Realm and the Immaculate Order in the destruction of Anathemic Exalts. Grace could refuse, but it would have consequences. And more than that, it would be profoundly ungrateful in a way that she can't stomach.

    "Tomorrow," Nettle says. "Pretty early, too."

    "... I see," Grace says, frowning.

    "The 'sabbatical time' for this has already been cleared," Holok says. "It's short notice, so we'll send you paperwork proving you're someone important enough to be taken seriously, clothing to go with it, and enough jade and cash to cover emergencies down there. The Sorcerer or the Quiver would work well."

    "Thank you," Grace says, already considering the two constellations named, and the Resplendent Destinies she might weave with them.

    A Resplendent Destiny can cloak a Sidereal in the archetypal associations of one of the twenty-five constellations, allowing her to be viewed through the lens of that archetype. The Sorcerer and the Quiver are from the Houses of Secrets and Battles respectively. The former represents wisdom and supernatural power, and is a traditional choice for being viewed as any given variety of Exalt. The Quiver, on the other hand, is associated with cleverness, quick-thinking, and intelligent fighting, as well as with young Dragon-Blooded in particular.

    The identification she's being provided with will name her as a Dragon-Blood, then. She thinks she can manage it, but it's a bit of a daunting task among actual Dynasts on the Blessed Isle, and one that part of her still thinks of as being a little blasphemous.

    "Nettle has the rest of the details," Holok says. "She can brief you on them, if you'd like to take the rest of the day to get ready."

    Grace nods, hearing the friendly dismissal for what it is. "Thank you, sir," she says, "I will do that, then." She drains the rest of her tea and gets to her feet, bowing respectfully.

    "Bravery begins with a steadfast heart in the face of fear," Holok offers. It's a well-known line from the Immaculate Texts, speaking on the virtues exemplified by Mela. Somehow, hearing it helps. "Take this enemy seriously. Follow Nettle's lead. We wouldn't ask this of you if we didn't have confidence you could do it."

    Grace smiles, nodding in thanks.

    "Yeah, sounds good to me," Nettle says, unfolding herself from the windowsill and dropping to the floor. "I've gotta go beg for forgiveness from a very scary war goddess now, I think. Had to reschedule a dinner date over this shit. Wish me luck."

    Instead of wishing her luck, Holok reaches over to the table, picking up a small clay jar that sits there beside the tea. He tosses it to Nettle underhand, and she catches it easily. "Here," he says. "Unless you don't want to trust anything from me, with my atrophied senses."

    Nettle pops the cork on the jar, inhales the aroma from within, and grins. "You know you can't take the shit that comes out of my mouth too seriously all the time. It's why no one likes Laughing Monsters, we just start doing it on fucking reflex. Thanks!" She pops the cork back into place, and turns toward the door, tossing him a backward wave. "See you in however long this takes."

    Grace turns to follow her, not sure what else to do. The last she sees of Holok, he's chuckling to himself, and pouring another cup of tea.

    Stepping out of the office behind Nettle, Grace lets out a slight sigh. To her displeasure, it does very little to relieve the tense nervousness that has settled into the back of her head. She means to ask about the jar Holok had given Nettle, but she's distracted almost immediately.

    The winged god from earlier has abandoned his reading material on the bench, and now stands a ways down the hall, having a quiet conversation with someone who has apparently come from the other direction. It's Yula Cerenye, who looks more and more displeased by the second. Perhaps even a shade worried.

    "... Fucking little snitch," Nettle mutters.

    Grace gives her a surprised look, but doesn't have time to ask. Yula seems to notice them standing there — immediately, she packs up her unhappy expression and puts it away for another occasion, affecting instead something cool and disinterested.

    "So," Yula says. She barely glances over both of them. "You'll be leaving soon, I imagine."

    "Yes," Grace says, not doing enough to hide her general worry. "To the Blessed Isle. For..." She trails off — Yula is already moving briskly past in that gliding way of hers, gathering her shawl closer around herself.

    "My condolences," Yula says, tossing the comment over her shoulder. "Try to pick me up a spring roll on the way back, if you can find the time."

    Grace stares after her, startled, and a little hurt by the abruptness. And filled with an unproductive desire to explain that Northern Blessed Isle cooks have no idea how to make a decent spring roll, compared to the ones in Scarlet Prefecture.

    Nettle gives something close to a quiet laugh, and mutters, barely audible: "Love you too, bitch." She shoots the winged god a look of mild reproof as he puts the book into his jacket pocket. In a blink, he becomes a handsome, tawny mospid. Ignoring the look, the mospid flaps up into the air and settles on Nettle's shoulder. "Did you have to do that?" she asks.

    The mospid speaks as clearly as if he still had human features, a sly tone in his voice, almost the suggestion of a smirk: "What would you have me do? Ignore Lady Cerenye? Lie to her about our plans? It would be inexcusably rude."

    Nettle rolls her eyes.

    Grace hesitates, still staring after Yula. "She seemed... displeased with me."

    "Oh, Yula?" Nettle asks. "I mean, out of all the people you could tell about your plans to go to the middle of the fucking Isle and risk your life helping a bunch of Dynasts and Immaculates kill an Exalt just to suck up to the Bronze Faction, I would have thought she'd be fucking thrilled about it. You know her and the Realm, practically her second favourite place. You remember she's a Gold, right?"

    Grace feels her face heat. "There's no reason to be sarcastic," she says.

    "I've been telling her that for years," the mospid confides, as though Nettle were not currently his perch.

    Nettle shrugs at that, as though she can't quite muster a defence of her actions. Or doesn't care to. She turns toward the hall that should lead to the exit, and begins to walk down it at an easy pace.

    Grace watches her go for a moment, then, gripped by an indignation she can't quite contain: "... It's not just that," Grace adds, having to walk a little faster than is comfortable to keep up with Nettle. "I'm not just doing this to... suck up. I owe the Faction enough, obviously, but it's also the right thing to do!"

    Nettle looks at her askance, stopping short. "The right thing to do?"

    Grace can't tell if Nettle is amused, annoyed, or just surprised by the sentiment in this line of work, but Grace doesn't immediately know how to respond to it. Something in that look makes her original line of thought genuinely difficult to continue. She forces herself onward in the face of Nettle's stare. "I don't care what they really are, Anathema are dangerous. The longer one's left to its own devices, the more people it can hurt."

    Nettle nods, as though she's just learned something mildly useful about Grace. "It's really interesting, seeing where the Immaculate ones come down on this shit," Nettle decides, mouth quirking up. "Of course they're dangerous. I'll let you come to your conclusions on the rest, whatever makes the job easier." She shifts topics abruptly, tone going serious as she begins to walk again, pace slowing to match Grace's shorter stride. "So, we're leaving from the Sky Mirror Gate," Nettle says. "Fastest way to get to Ventus — inconvenient in some ways, but I can manage."

    "That's in Eternal Frost," the mospid advises Grace. "Can you manage transport on your own?"

    "Yes," Grace agrees. She looks meaningfully between Nettle and the mospid.

    "Oh, right," Nettle says. "Grinning at Murder, god of messenger birds intercepted in flight. Grinner, this is Singular Grace, the new Joybringer."

    "Delighted," Grinner says, bowing a little on Nettle's shoulder.

    "Likewise," Grace says, knowing all too well that she's going to be the 'new Joybringer' until another Chosen of Venus has Exalted after her, no matter how many decades that takes. Grinner's nature isn't particularly hard to discern — there are ways a Sidereal can transform an animal familiar into a minor god. He isn't the first that Grace has personally met, although he's the first with even a modest purview of his own in the Celestial Bureaucracy.

    Grace looks back to Nettle. "How dangerous is this likely to be?"

    Nettle shrugs. "Dangerous," she says. "Never get too comfortable going up against another Exalt unless you know exactly what they can do. You won't be alone, though — there'll be Dragon-Blooded, and you'll have us." She seems to include Grinner in this. "What style are you using? You move like a martial artist, but that doesn't narrow it down much." She looks Grace over once, the look professionally assessing. "Dreaming Pearl Courtesan?"

    "Throne Shadow," Grace says.

    Nettle actually laughs, a sound that just sets Grace slightly on edge again. "Right, of course, makes sense he'd teach you that. Well, worst comes to worst, just stay behind me or anyone else handy, skulk around in his blindspot, and hit him whenever you get an opening. You know the drill by now, right?"

    "... Thank you for the advice," Grace says, not gritting her teeth, because a lady doesn't grit her teeth, and through the grace of her goddess, she has become at least dubiously a lady. This is going to be a long, long trip.


    The present,

    Ventus Prefecture

    It's late on your fourth day with Vahelo's talon, and the order has just been sounded to halt for the night. The column of soldiers breaks up, establishing a perimeter and attending to the many tasks required for a force some 125 strong to make camp.

    Having dismounted from the horse that was supplied to you, you stand on a rocky outcropping overlooking the camp and a broad expanse of valley ahead, the sun hanging low in the sky. A black-feathered bird lands on a tree nearby, eyes you briefly, and then seems to dismiss you entirely, letting out a series of raucous cries.

    "We're making much better time than I thought we would," says a familiar voice. You look down to see Sesus Vahelo, still dressed in her armour, hiding the fatigue she no doubt feels.

    "Pleased to hear it," you say, tone inviting her to continue the conversation. She makes the climb up to the small overlook, stopping when she reaches your side. Sola has been more than a little harshly critical of the Sesus House Legions, and not always sufficiently out of earshot of Vahelo. While they certainly do not have a good reputation, compared to those of Tepet or Cathak, you don't think Sola would be that tactless under better circumstances.

    "Although not as good as you, coming all the way from Chanos Prefecture. Did I hear correctly that Amiti was the one who told you about this hunt taking place?" Vahelo asks.

    You laugh. "Yes, she brought it up completely offhandedly, while testing out a new... 'communication spell'."

    "That does sound like her," Vahelo says, choosing not to ask about the necromancy involved. Perhaps due to your past association, she has been a little braver than her subordinates, when it comes to sorcery or Maia's demonic servants. This does not mean she's enthusiastic about the subject, however.

    Down below, you catch Maia, supervising as your tent is pitched for the night. Seeing you watching, she gives you a smile, unbothered by your catching up with Vahelo. That Maia doesn't get jealous over such things is one of your favourite things about her. "I met her sister, Sesus Kasi, in the Imperial City," you say. "She gave me the impression that no one is particularly surprised about Amiti turning out like this."

    Vahelo laughs, although there's a complicated edge to it. You know better than to pry into a mortal Dynast's feelings, when it comes to a leftover child cousin who beat the odds and Exalted. "She seems to have done very well for herself. Particularly in her friends."

    "You're kind to say so," you say. "You've already done quite well for yourself as well, though — you can't have graduated more than two years ago."

    "Every year, the Hall of Rising Smoke selects its five top students to be sent to the Isle of Smoke, to complete their seventh year in training to become a legionary officer," Vahelo explains. You remember the name of her secondary school, and have vague recollections of the Isle of Smoke as the site of House Sesus's elite training grounds. "I've known what I wanted for most of my life."

    You begin to reply, but the sight of a lone figure approaching on austrech back makes you stop. "The last scout has returned," you tell Vahelo, pointing the figure out. "Or, almost the last, I suppose."

    "Lady Mei's guide," Vahelo says. "That woman seems like she might have been a poacher, prior to this, but she's certainly proven useful so far. If you will excuse me, Lady Ambraea?"

    "I'll accompany you," you say, also curious. You can't entirely disagree with the assessment of Yueh Mei's servant. Over your short journey, she's already warned the talon away from washed out bridges and unstable pathways.

    When you reach the guide, she's already in mid conversation with Yueh Mei, who is listening to her intently. As you approach, the austrech gives you both a vicious look — it's a lean, dusty grey creature, its eyes a cruel yellow, a far cry from your experience with better bred examples of the species. Still, the guide keeps a close hand on the bird's reins, and she gives you and Vahelo both a passable bow.

    "Lady Ambraea. Talonlord." Yueh Mei greets them. "There is news."

    "Is there?" Vahelo asks.

    There's that precarity here that you and Sister Briar discussed yesterday, between Vahelo's rank and her mortal status. Fortunately, Yueh Mei is not inclined to be difficult — she nods to the guide, who ducks her head again, and begins to speak:

    "Found a camp," the guide says. "Pretty recent, was used this morning or last night. They did their best to hide it, but I found signs. And a trail leading off from it."

    You and Vahelo both immediately stand up straighter. You glance at the angle of the sun over the horizon, and give a frustrated sigh. "It's going to be dark soon," you say.

    Vahelo nods, frustration obvious in her bearing. She tries to manage her expectations: "We're not stumbling after it at night. Especially when it might just be a paranoid local. The Ventus get fidgety about contact with any kind of authority."

    "Reasonable," you say. You fix the guide with a look. "Can you find it again tomorrow morning?" you ask.

    "Yes, my lady," she says, without hesitation, eyes downturned. She's been better behaved since that first encounter after your arrival. More than that, something about the way she talks fills you with a certainty that she knows what she's talking about, that she can be of genuine use in this capacity.

    "Then you had better get some rest," Vahelo says.

    "I will," the guide promises. "Just as soon as I see to my friend here — she don't like anyone else touching her." This clearly means the austrech. Looking at it, you can well believe her.

    "Go," Mei agrees. The guide bows, and leads her mount off in the direction of a stand of trees a little ways off.

    "If you'll excuse me, my ladies, I must inform my subordinates," Vahelo says, giving you both a respectful nod. Then she leaves to find Bright Thrush.

    Mei pauses a moment, watching the guide go. You regard her for a moment, aware that you haven't had much opportunity to speak with the cadet house Dynast. "Have you been on the Blessed Isle long?" you ask her.

    Mei looks up in surprise, her eyes as solemn as ever. "No," she says. "I've been here before, but that feels like a long time ago. Memories don't do it justice." Her gaze seems to slide up over your shoulder, to where the Imperial Mountain rises up in the distance, visible through a gap in the nearer mountains. As ever, it's breathtakingly massive.

    "I've heard stories of the Southwest, but I've never left the Blessed Isle myself," you say. "I've been told that it's both strange and beautiful."

    "I suppose you could say that!" Mei says. "My home is a city on the sea. I miss the salt air. And the people I knew there." Her eyes don't leave the distant mountains as she speaks.

    "Why leave them, then?" you ask.

    Mei smiles at you. "I was called away," she says. "I have to see a man about finances, believe it or not. He lives on the Eastern Isle, and I decided to take the scenic route. When I heard about the Anathema, it only seemed right to do my part. Much like yourself in that regard, I gather, lady Ambraea."

    You're struck, in that instant, by the degree to which Deizil had lowered your expectations for how well cadet house Dynasts can demonstrate basic manners. You suppose that comes down to his family in particular being so disreputable. "An Imperial Daughter does have her duty to the Realm." And to her increasingly reckless friend, you don't add.

    She finally looks at you then, a strangely searching sort of look. "It's not surprising to hear you say that, I suppose," she says.

    You're not entirely certain what she means by that, but before you get a chance to ask, you catch sight of a final pair of riders arriving back at camp on horseback. Acting on her own insistence, Sola had left hours before without telling either you or Maia — that Briar had gone with her as a precaution had been something of a relief, but it hadn't solved the underlying problem.

    Now, Sola's expression is particularly troubled as she dismounts, her eyes stormy in more ways than they usually are. The monk beside her is tranquil as ever, but you don't miss the look of concern she shoots Sola's way. You're not the only one who can see worrisome signs, it would seem. You can't just keep ignoring this. You'll need to have a serious talk with Maia.

    "If you'll excuse me, Lady Mei," you say, "I believe I need to go consult my Hearthmate."

    "Of course," Yueh Mei says.

    You nod to her in gratitude, step away from Mei, and go to search for Maia.


    Due to the length of this update, for the sake of pacing, I will leave you on this note, and return with the second half ideally within the next few days. The next vote will be in that update.
     
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    • We really made a good choice when we decided to kiss Vahelo. She's a fun sort of competent and it's nice to see her and Maia in the same metaphorical room together.
     
    Ganurath said:
    spits drink in 2e

    I take it that the style in 3e is considerably different from what it was in 2e, if humans (that aren't Lunars with the right Graces) are able to use it.
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    It's been a normal style available to all player character types since Fangs at the Gate came out. The shaman mentioned here is not explicitly stated to have been a Lunar, but it feels like they probably were.

    Article:
    Laughing Monster Style

    The fae warrior-saints of the Court of Flayed Sinners distilled Laughing Monster style from the digested dreams of countless thieves, scavenger princes, and oathbreakers drawn by rumors of the unimaginable treasures they guarded. This reign of false virtue was ended by the shaman Juven Fifth-Summer, who tore off the face of the court's prince and coaxed the style's secrets from his ragged lips, using them to set the raksha against each other until none remained.

    Laughing Monster style epitomizes impetuosity and wicked humor, employing misdirection and confusion to humiliate rivals with inordinate glee. Its stylists practice erratic breathing exercises, rolling dance-steps, and ego-destroying meditations to fully understand its secrets. It has spread to numerous dojos, secret societies, and criminal syndicates. It's regarded as a style of thieves, revolutionaries, madmen, and all manner of trickster-heroes, as unpredictable as any devil born of the Wyld.

    Laughing Monster Weapons: Laughing Monster style uses open-handed slaps, elbow strikes, and sweeping kicks. It also employs the staff, war fan, and whip. Unarmed attacks enhanced with Laughing Monster Charms can be stunted to deal lethal damage.

    Armor: Laughing Monster is incompatible with armor.

    Complementary Abilities: Laughing Monster's evasive footwork relies on Dodge, while Presence or Socialize are useful for its trickery. Its students value Occult, for they delve into obscure, worrisome practices.
    Source: Lunars: Fangs at the Gate pg. 303
     
    Ganurath said:
    spits drink in 2e

    I take it that the style in 3e is considerably different from what it was in 2e, if humans (that aren't Lunars with the right Graces) are able to use it.
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    Click to shrink...

    While I don't know anything about Laughing Monster in specific, in 3rd edition all MAs (except Sidereal MAs) can be learned by any exalt. They often have keywords that make them stronger or weaker in the hands of specific exalt types, but there's not as many hard divisions anymore.
     
    Since we're already here and talking about the general subject, this is the pitch on the one that Grace mentions being proficient in:

    Article:
    Throne Shadow Style

    Throne Shadow style is the fighting art of the éminence grise who lurks behind queens and princes, moving unnoticed as all eyes watch the crown. Its practitioners master the ways of insight, subtlety, and misdirection; they're sometimes called viziers, for while they're skilled in hand-to-hand combat, their greatest strength is their students and disciples. When the vizier feints, her student strikes; when she moves back, he advances.

    Many Sidereals practice Throne Shadow style, befitting those who shape the course of history unseen, but they're far from its only masters. Few schools are wholly devoted to it, but some schools of other styles incorporate it as a set of advanced techniques that must be mastered to be recognized as a teacher of martial arts. On thistle-wreathed Mount Kenoi, courtiers and royal consorts study Throne Shadow to survive the autokrator's deadly court. The Celadon Lowlands' peasant farmers have practiced it for generations, the legacy of a wandering Sidereal who fought alongside them in a long-ago rebellion.

    Throne Shadow Weapons: Throne Shadow unarmed attacks are primarily open palm strikes, pushes, and low kicks, though stylists make use of their forearms, elbows, and knees as well. It's also compatible with fighting chains, rope darts, seven-section staffs, staffs, and wind-and-fire wheels.

    Armor: This style isn't compatible with armor.

    Complementary Abilities: Throne Shadow style employs the subtlety and deception of Larceny, Socialize, and Stealth.
    Source: Sidereals: Charting Fate's Course Backer Preview pg.318
     
    Gazetteer said:
    "Thank you," Grace says, bracing herself as she takes a sip. The acrid taste of cheap, over-boiled tea hits her mouth like a slap. She forces herself to swallow it, keeping her expression pleasant, even as Holok downs his own with all evident enthusiasm. She's too well-raised to even consider insulting what a host provides, particularly a host who is also a senior Bureau member.
    Click to expand...
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    You can take the servant out of the Dynasty, but you can't take the Dynasty out of the servant it seems.
     
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