Chapter Text
Thanks a billion to my friends and lovers for trusting me with our old PCs for this runback! Party members (names to be revealed on appearance) and their respective players:
Cavanna Amelis – Ash (That’s me!~)
The Vengeance of the Savored Sting – Valphomet
The Wanderer by the Sealing Sword – Sven
The Warrior from the Worldwound – Seren
The Blood-Hungering Fox – Jeanette
The Threefold Scion – Robert
Chapter 2: Shimmer, Velvet, in my hand
“If you find no blossom like those ‘round our home, choose instead one alike in spirit. Let your magic guide your step. Daughter mine, all new things need growing into. An echo of your beginning eases the path. That will be your bridge.” -Tereth Amelis
~Cavanna~
“Hold a tap!” Jemmin hurries after us, Troliks and Gozil on her heels. “Not sure what you’re about, but we’re not leaving you alone on the streets of Kenabres, Armasse or not.”
I grimace, a pin to my bravado. With eye-flicks and a look behind camouflaged as a whimsical pirouette, I make certain the void in foot-traffic extends in all directions. So it does, so I speak bluntly: “That’s likely wise. If there are no witnesses about, I doubt very much that the powers-be will put in… undue… effort on a murdered tiefling’s behalf.”
“Nobody’s gonna kill you,” Troliks says with a voice full of iron. “If they try, they won’t live long enough for the law to matter.”
“Careful,” Kavel cautions. “Self-defense is legal in Kenabres, lest some agent of the Abyss go a-slaughtering with impunity. But if one were found to have killed another for any reason, they would have to prove they were justified.”
“Have no fear, have no fear,” Jemmin laughs, and waves the words away, but her eyes are glinting sharp. “No member of the Haftless Axes could bear to be seen shaming our company.”
Kavel’s smile is just as sharp. “It’s good to hear you know the way of virtue.”
From then on our talk turns to banter, mirthful jokes, little anecdotes. The further we move into Kenabres, the deeper I retreat into that muffling cold distance of the mind. The carefree words, the reflexive dance of emotion and expression—all that simple business of being people among people, I’m not much good at any of it. Anecdotes I have aplenty, but they’re all things that must remain hidden. I love wit but I’m a poor hand at it, and banter… it’s hard not to obsess over the shallowness of the words, and remember that who we speak to sometimes matters more than what we say. Mother did warn me this part would be hard:
“Danger strikes twice. Fight when you must, but don’t define yourself by that which threatens. You will be tired by the time you find sanctuary, sorrowing and afraid and in pain. So when those moments come, you must clutch all the tighter, lest you sleepwalk through a thousand peaceful days with a heart forever unmended. You will forget how to treat other people as anything but dangerous, and seek the path of slaughter just to feel something.”
Gozil’s voice less so startles than it stirs, like blurring from the last visions of a dream into a gentle waking on a morning of sunlight, dew, and birdsong. “You look like you’re walking somewhere else, girl. Is it a path you can share? I’ll not press, but I’d be honored.”
And without really thinking about it, I recite my mother’s lesson, exact to the word.
“Does…” Jemmin blinks. “Does your mother often say things like that?”
“N-n-not all the time!” I stammer. Idiot idiot idiot idiot—! “She mostly keeps that side to herself. She’s not one to mold a child in her own image. But if I’m adrift, you know, and I ask for advice, then she’ll…” I trail off, unsure how to salvage this debacle.
“You’re alright, Cav,” Troliks rumbles. “Nobody here thinks you’re showing off, that’s not what Gem meant. Your ma’s a wise, wise woman, that’s all.”
This is what my mother calls sugar that looks like poison: it’s harmless, but it’s still panic-making close to the mark. A wise woman… yes, surely that is one name for it!
“Very much so!” Jemmin nods. “Gods, how I wish mine’d been anything like…” She shakes herself. “Sorry, not the time. Point is, that’s sound stuff, the lot. Explains a lot about you.”
“It does?” I ask, trapped in a limbo between flattered and horrified.
“Aye!” Gozil chuckles. “And easy, lass, that’s a good thing. You’re a treasure, Cav.”
“Thank you…” I murmur. “It’s… it’s odd for me, I suppose, to think of my own mother as someone who’s lived a dangerous life. The more so as I’m already growing accustomed to facing unusual dangers.”
“Well, that’s just the way Golarion is, isn’t it?” Troliks scratches his scalp. “If the danger ahead is unusual, then what’s the usual danger?” He waits, grin growing at us as we try to glean his meaning, until at last he laughs out, “Whichever one you’re standing in!” and throws his head back, armor rattling with mirth. The rest of us exchange lopsided grins. When he subsides, still chuckling, he concludes, “my father Torran used to trade along the Belkzen-Lastwall border. Your ma’s a traveling merchant too, right? Roads around Mendev aren’t any safer.”
Thank you, winds of chaos, for bearing Troliks’ words. “Yes!” I exclaim. “I admit I’d never really thought of it.”
“Don’t blame ya,” Gozil frowns. “At home, my ma was the gentlest woman you’ve ever known. But abroad? A berserker! Can you believe that?” He strokes his beard. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the why, eh? Most people fear their own anger. It’s always a thing forced on ‘em. To her, it was just another feelin’, kept when it suited, shelved when not. Must’ve made it easy to laugh off when I, er… ruined the good iron…” He fades out in embarrassment, shakes himself, and finishes, “Don’t matter how old you get. It’s not fun to think of your ma facing death.”
“Mm… indeed not.” I wait a few steps, then of Troliks ask, “So, your father was rather intimate with danger?”
My friend snickers at my phrasing. “Course he was, ‘til a Belkzen raiding party ransacked the caravan he’d joined. Most of the merchants didn’t last long, but fortunately for pa, their leader liked the way he whimpered.” He grins again. “Anyway, that’s how he met my mother.”
At that, our little party shares a wave of raunchy chuckles and waggled eyebrows, drawing many a sour look from citizens bustling up or down the road past us. We soon pass beyond the screen of newer buildings thrown up around the eastern gate after the old southern was sealed. On all sides lies greenery, great sweeps of park mostly enclosed by fences of brick and wrought iron, with glimpses of wealthy family estates through the trees.
“I’ve heard ‘twas much to the consternation of Kenabres’ people,” I muse aloud, “the new gate, this road we walk.”
“That it was,” Kavel nods. “But a city bordering the Worldwound must survive as a fortress before it can thrive as a city. The old road south along the Sellen was always exposed. In the days of old Sarkoris the Iobarians of Mendev favored it; back then they walked the river’s length without a care, deeming it safer at times than their own heartland. The river-druids and witch-wardens of Sarkoris patrolled it often, to keep the arteries of the land free and pure.”
I frown. “I’ve not heard of that.” Then—sorry, Kavel, I hope I can earn your forgiveness one day—“The witch-wardens were… a sort of specialized shamanry, yes? It was their duty to ensure Sarkoris’ many witches did not undo the spiritual harmony of the land?”
“No,” Kavel frowns, “but don’t blame yourself for thinking so, Lady Amelis—”
“Lady?” I tease, with a raised eyebrow and a smile.
He returns the smile, eyes wryly dancing. “You are a weaver of songs that lull the cosmos itself to dream new horizons. I can conceive no higher form of the gentle Chaos, the Chaos of growing and renewal. If such art is not worthy of ‘Lady,’ then nothing is that mortals endeavor.” More serious, he inclines his head. “Unless you dislike it?”
“No,” I laugh. “No, ‘tis pleasing. I am ladylike enough, in my own estimation.”
“Then Lady Amelis it shall be.” He holds the smile a few seconds more before the frown returns. “In any case, ‘tis not displeasing to the Iomedaeans that the popular understanding of the old Sarkorian honorific, which we translate as ‘witch-warden,’ goes unchallenged.” Again, he emphasizes his words with utmost care. “The Inheritor does not require her champions to preserve history, nor ensure its truth is passed on. It is outside their oaths, so they leave it to others. Most folk assume ‘witch-warden’ is a softer cousin to ‘witch-hunter,’ but ‘twas in truth opposite in Sarkoris of old: a witch who was warden of the land’s spiritual health.”
I smile softly. The burn of self-hate in my breast is so familiar it, perversely, gentles my aspect even further. “Such trust placed in witches… it is hard to imagine such a thing, but I do cherish the thought. It’s wonderful to hear someone still cares for the lore of Lost Sarkoris. Whatever the sins of the Worldwound’s Architect, the Sarkorians are people too, aren’t they? ‘tis wretched they’re so often spoken of as though none survived. Their songs are not sung in Mendev.”
“Yes,” Kavel agrees, with a world-weary sigh. “Well… let us hope the future brings something better for them. An end to the Worldwound, for a start.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “That for a start.”
I remember naught of what we say after, and though my eyes often rove as a matter of habit, I see little. The promised courtyard lies near the end of the estate districts, enclosed by a high darkstone wall streaked with vines, shut with a solid iron gate. Kavel approaches, from beneath his tunic drawing a small wooden pendant on a gleaming copper chain. Though unpainted, the butterfly is lovingly crafted, the painterly flow of its shapes familiar.
“A gift from Taranis?” I ask.
He nods, smiling. “Just so. I lost the previous, of silver with gemstone wings, in a contest of wills against a cultist of Nocticula. My scouting party stumbled into hers. The strain shattered it, which, while fortunately my Lady’s Luck steered the shards away from my vitals,” he tugs his tunic down, revealing a string of scars around his collarbone, “required a long while in the chirurgeon’s tent.” He laughs. “I must concede the spiritual victory to my foe; however, we were both of us too exhausted to call further on our patrons, so her advantage went unpressed.”
He raises the wood-winged symbol to the gate-latch, lengths of star-dappled night pouring from its wings and antennae into the lock. Mechanisms click, and the metal creaks open. Kavel again secrets the pendant under his clothes.
“Thank you, Kavel.” I adjust my pack and step through. “I promise I shall be quick! Watch me or the surround, as your hearts feel called. Just so long as I’m not surprised by strangers!”
I lose their answers beyond the vague surety that they’ve agreed: as I walk over the threshold, my eyes are on the impromptu gardens. A crater ten foot across sits near the center, and within heaps of overgrown rubble. Its brim is overrun by the same flowers, vines, and ferns filling the rest of the estate-grounds. Only the cellars survive, arched doorways once supporting the floor above now converted to mossy overhangs. ‘tis a miniature labrythinth of verdant hollows, but it’s more than the quiet beauty that steals my breath away: to my eyes, the growth spirals outward in blurry but distinct bands from four points, the central crater being the largest.
In my delight I nearly open my lips to say so, but of course they’ll think poor Cav is mad. These are signs of the Outer Rifts they cannot see, and even if they believed me, ‘twould be this little haven’s undoing. Small wonder the air feels lighter, here, and freer! To my nose the scents easily come: autumnal tang of Volsleaf, fruity sweetness of the Bakhflor… that earthy sharpness... is that Vragnrut? Imagine finding them here! It truly does feel like home.
“Right…” I walk right to the crater’s edge along a causeway of cracked red bricks which must once have been a pathway ‘round the outside of the manor. And, with a deep breath to steady, in wordless voice I take up the notes of “Idling by the Mirror of the Sky.” ‘tis a slow, passionate folk-ballad long popular here along the northern branches of the Sellen, the lyrics alluding to a pair of lovers rowing near the shore. Of course, by the end, they’re focused on nearer, firmer things than the river and the stars…
Into my rhythms the magic flows, streamers of emerald fire coalescing from the far ether to weave licking and dancing along my arms, to run down swaying hips, to form many-forked tendrils plucking open the ties at my gown’s back ‘til it falls from my shoulders. I wriggle free of shirt and trousers, kick off my boots and stand them upright in my view to make sure nothing crawls into them. My undergarments I needn’t remove, already frilly and black as they are—anyone seeing those has followed me beyond the need for modesty! All clothes folded, I tuck them into my pack and extract my favorite gown: a sheer one of violet gossamer, fine threads flashing iridescent pink highlights of images that change to suit the eye of the beholder.
I take a little while to admire it, and myself. Beneath each heaving breast are scales imitative of corset’s ribbing. Hips and ass are equally plump, an hourglass too exaggerated to pass for tasteful. Powerful muscles in arms, core, and legs only accentuate my lewdness further. That’s just how I like it. If I could tear out the throat of every miserable old maid who muttered about me under her breath, I’d do it in a heartbeat and feel no regrets… alright, minimal regrets. No, that still seems unfair. They oughtn’t shame me so, but ours is a wounded world. My compassion doesn’t amount to much if I’ll kill someone just for being bitter.
Enough. I lure myself back to the present with fingers dug into the plump flesh of a heated tit, palm rubbing across a sweetly-sensitive nipple and broad areola so darkly green it’s almost black. The need, the need, the need of it! If only I had time to throw myself down among the ferns and the flowers, feel every frond and petal caressing my skin, just lose myself for an hour or three! A quick release will have to do: softly I half sing, half moan a bawdy song, the sort of thing I save for those rare, special nights when the Flagon's open late and the patrons have begun casting me a certain kind of stare. A thing of swinging hips, thighs squeezing together as a hand runs down one hitching leg, a lean far forward to flaunt pendulous cleavage and a finger beckoning “come hither.”
“Come dance with me, o shepherd,
and I’ll be your little lamb
oh, love, don’t mind the fangs
see, I’m velvet to your hand—”
My fingers find my folds, parting, teasing with slow splayed presses as lust-nectar beads droplets on my petals. I am, so I’ve been told, an unusually wet girl. As magic flows into the sultry croon of my voice, as an eager finger shifts to urgent circles on the bud of my cl*t, everything crescendos to a smoldering surge so heavy I’m dragged to my knees. Head reeling back, only the faintest presence of mind sends a forearm to my mouth, fangs grinding on scales as I muffle a scream of ecstasy. Oh, oh, oh, that’s good! That’s gooood… thighs trembling, I rock slowly, regular pulses of squirt raising steam from the moss and meadow flowers between my legs.
It’s so tempting to plummet sideways and just lie there, panting with euphoria, but we are on a schedule. I’ll have to work my afterglow into the act of dressing and be content with that. So, sighing half in bliss and half in regret, I haul myself around to face my pack. No stockings… ah… well… there is that pair. So I root them out, black fabric that could barely be dignified ‘translucent’ when folded tight. Kneeling on one leg, I pull them slowly, sensually up the other, all the while singing as magic and the sheer luridness of the display stoke the need already churning anew.
Already? I knew it was wishful thinking that I could get through the whole day on the org*sms before we broke camp, but it’s been mere minutes this time! What’s gotten into me? Now it’s stretched over my curves, the fine satin’s see-through, save for the thick bands at the thigh and imagery of serpents chasing rodents down each leg. I’m well past the point of no return, drawing out my heeled black shoes and slipping them on.
Now comes the dress, slit-hem falling open around one leg scandalously outstretched. For jewelry I choose my only silver, a fine chain necklace with a flawless emerald socketed in its disc—gift from my paramour of the year after… oh, acid rain and wailing steel, the year after the Worldwound took Dameyr. It shines snugly in the ample valley of my bosoms—let a lightfingers try for it if they’re bold enough! I draw out veils of lilac gossamer and wrap them over my arms, tying each carefully so a band of loose fabric, hanging near the elbow, will flutter with any motion large enough.
I close up my pack, tie boots to the back, and take a single step only to feel steaming wetness against my crotch. Right. Unlimber my bloody things again, where’s that damn pad… there! A simple white thing shod in runes, slipped into my delicates. Best I don't leave any little rivers in my wake—that afternoon in Nerosyan was mortifying enough! A bashful murmur of song sends the wetness staining the front of my gown back into my body. Last of all, I heft my sword belt, spinning as I lift it simply for the joy of wind rushing around me, and buckle Sunset in its rightful place at my left hip. Matching hand on its palm, I put my other hand on the opposing hip and throw them out salaciously. What am I missing, what am I missing?… ah! Of course, the blossom!
A little over-quick for urgency, my eyes rove the tranquil growth until they find a splash of vivid blue, seven petals spangling a bulb of golden threads and black core. I know not its name, but it looks every inch like the sort we’d grow ‘round our cottage in Coppervale. So I stride with a purposeful click-click-click of heels, take a knee beside, and as I reach for it fervently whisper:
“In gratitude sings my sword, with victory and blood return I your bounty, oh fertile lands. Spirits of fern and night, please accept this token in proof of my good word.” And with a decisive jab I drive my index-claw into my right palm, spilling green-black ichor. With the same talon I snip the flower’s stem, singing underbreath a song at once of light healing and to lift away all the life-blood from my palm, soaking the ground beneath. Spectral blooms of multicolor light, and curlicue patterns stirring in the soil, show my promise is accepted.
Spirit swelling that much further at this omen, I stand, and as St. Clydwell’s tolls eleven o’clock I tuck the strange, lovely flower into the blood-red locks beside my horns. I sashay out of the garden, noting from Trolik’s cleared throat that he elected to watch.
“There’s our gal,” Jemmin smiles. Her reserve won’t hide that blush: of course she watched me, too. Kavel has a pensiveness to him, and naturally Gozil’s appraisal is purely supportive.
“Not an admirer of the fairer sex, Chaplain Selsic?” I tease.
He laughs. “I am an admirer of all sexes, never sex by itself. For me it must come as an act of devotion to one I dearly love. But if, in all the starry currents of eternity, there was to come one woman who might teach me otherwise, you would’ve been she.”
“Damn it,” Gozil swears at Kavel’s words, louder than he likely meant to, scuffing a boot across the ground. Then, with a good-natured chuckle, he turns to me. “You’re looking fine, Cav, fine as a winter twilight! Venora’ll be at her wit's end ere we march on the Wound, what with all the new recruits joinin’ us just for a chance at your hand.”
“Her hand’s not bad,” Jemmin smirks wickedly, “but her clever lips are the real treasure—and the ones in her face aren’t half bad, either!”
Laughing, blushing behind my hand, I at last manage, “Thank you so much, all of you! I should be dire adrift without your praises.”
“Nothing of it, Cav!” Her smile becomes a grin. “What would we do without you? You keep the whole unit’s morale up!” She slaps me directly on the ass, sending a gasp to my lips and a spasm down my tail. “You’re our load-bearing slu*t!”
My hand flashes to the rear of her head, claws gripping hair. Her turn to gasp as I pull her backward. “Gemstone. Please. My little green purity-dress was the only thing screening me from,” I quite nearly hiss through my fangs, “certain needs. I am going mad with it already.” I lean in, lips brushing at her neck. Her scent drives me wild: feminine sweat, oil and leather and tent-canvas. And the way her eyes widen, the way she squirms in my grip… to have her quivering for me like this, hour after hour after hour… half-feral, I whisper—“Any further teasing, and I mean any, may push me past the limits of my will.”
Kavel politely clears his throat. “I hate to interrupt this magnificent display, Lady Amelis, but you are visible from the street now.” With a subtle nod, he indicates the wide-eyed glances cast by several initiates of Sarenrae as they hurry deeper into Kenabres.
Mortified, I hide bashfully behind my hands as Jemmin groan-laughs, “Cav, I am so, so sorry…”
“It’s fine,” I whisper, in a tiny airless voice. “It’s juuuuust fine. I’m resistant to fire, remember? When they tie me to the stake, I shall sing a merry little song of shapeshifting, and pretend to be a cloud of ash blowing away in the wind!”
“Nooooo,” she groans even harder, gripping my arm and rocking with me. “Don’t say that!”
“Easy, Gemstone dearest,” I giggle. “If aught’s made of it, I’m sure Kavel will be willing to vouch I was training you to resist seduction techniques.”
“Ha!” he laughs. “Fear not, for no ill will come of it. The initiates will gossip amongst themselves, as teenagers do, but their Lady and mine are close allies.”
I can’t resist. “Indeed. ‘tis my understanding they are very good friends.”
Jemmin grins. “Housemates, even!”
“Enough, enough,” Kavel laughs, hurrying to close and relock the garden. “All must enter the Ring District by the same switchback, and Old Kenabres was not built for half so many as the city holds now. Best we hurry—it may take us through noon just to ascend!”
“Oh, gods,” I laugh, “I hope not. I should rather like to be there for start of it all!”
“Hm…” he muses, knuckles to chin. “We risk missing it if we try the remaining distance afoot—it can take as much as an hour to reach Clydwell from here at a reasonable pace, and that’s on days of no distinction. Half the city packs into the Plaza during Armasse, say nothing of all the crusaders from the camps… ah!” He snaps his fingers. “The Song of the Spheres has afforded me a blessing for moments just such as this. I don’t think it’ll hurt anything if we skip in line, hm?” He winks, and grasping the butterfly under his tunic, he closes his eyes in reverie—then, exhales.
Now the starry night rides Kavel’s own breath, and flows to the threshold of the sealed garden. It blooms out, fills the doorway, and unfolds away from us into a shimmerant corridor where, not twenty paces away, light soon pours through another opening. On the other side are pavilions, stalls, and so very many people already milling.
“After you, oh esteemed comrades.” With a bow and a sweep of his arms, Kavel invites us forward.
“Ha!” I laugh. “A gentleman of the road, indeed.”
He winks again as I pass into the peaceful hall, my heels clicking on nothing; like each sound we make it comes at the source, but no echo answers. I stretch out my arms, and finding no barriers, glance to Kavel as he brings up the rear. He waves at the entry, closing it, and only stars remain behind us. Much as I’ve already come to trust him, ‘tis an ominous sight.
“What happens if someone just,” I gesture at the… oh, blazes and damnation take me, the tapestry of night, beckoning to us from all sides. “… just wanders off?” I finish.
“A good question!” the Desnan chuckles. “To many of us she’s opened the Passage of Stars, and of that many, many more have opened it, only to fall entranced by the spectacle to all sides and fly away chasing far horizons. I mean to find the answer for myself when I retire from the warfront. In dreams Desna has assured me it is a journey like any other, with safe ways and unsafe to take. To find our own paths is always risky. ‘tis the true price of all freedom.”
“In that, we are utterly agreed,” I smile.
And a moment later we pass the threshold, emerging onto the age’d terraces of Clydwell Plaza. On the far side the cathedral itself, old grey stone artfully set with buttresses more like bastions and a towering steeple of patina’d copper, looms mountainously against the late-morning sky. Though more than three hundred feet separate us from it, too far to make out clearly the images sealed in its stained glass, I am familiar with them by reputation: depictions of St. Clydwell himself, and the multitudes of demons he trapped in a prison beyond all breaking, though it cost him his life.
We've arrived from a quiet, grassy pathway stretching back among the oldest homes in the city. Ahead is a cacophony of colors, tents and pennants and stalls thronged by more people than I’ve ever seen before in my life. Kavel didn’t exaggerate the crowding; in many places folks already teem as thickly as soldiers packed in to the battle-line. Ha! How appropriate for Armasse! A few open spaces here and there indicate respectful distance given to delegations from that knightly order, this temple. Past the stately ancient trees on the Plaza’s north side, vast benches set up around the jousting grounds afford some relief from the crush, but only some.
“So that’s the Cathedral of St. Clydwell.” Troliks whistles. “Quite a sight. Quite a sight.”
“It’s certainly a behemoth thing,” I try to smile with appropriate awe, but I can tell I’ve done it badly even before Jemmin whispers.
“What’s eating you, Cav?” the aiuvarin nudges me gently.
“The windows are beautifully wrought,” I whisper back, “and rationally I know those are demons of the most vicious sort, terrible soldiers of the Worldwound, but… they are still horned things. To see their downfall celebrated, however deserved, is complex for me.”
“I don’t blame you one bit,” she murmurs, rubbing my back. “You’re not like them, Cav. You’re mortal. You’re one of us.”
“Yes,” I echo, only half-hearing her. “Yes, you’re right… thank you.” My eyes settle on a window along the cathedral’s facade, in its glass a wing’d shape strangely haunting despite all vagaries of distance. In my belly churns the muddy-cold fear that I already know the substance of it. I tear myself away, scanning quickly ‘til I find a promising sight: a hillock of vermilion, scarlet, blue, white, and forest green with so many banners flying as to be a parody of pageantry itself.
“Is, er,” I can’t help but giggle, gesturing at it, “is that, by any chance, the revered Desno-Shelynite pavilion?”
“Why,” Kavel comically shields his eyes from the sun with his hand, as though staring over an impossible distance, and in an operatic boom he proclaims, “by the Great Dreamer, you’re right, it is the very same!” He glances to me with a dashing grin, and in his normal speaking voice he adds, “How ever did you guess?”
I laugh, taking the initiative to walk towards it. “There were subtle clues. It would be against Shelyn’s own wishes if her clergy exhausted themselves trying to be artful on a festival day, wouldn’t it?”
Kavel chuckles. “Last Armasse, and I swear to you by all the fair skies I do not exaggerate, the Eternal Rose sent a dapsara to drag them away from their projects, then gently coax them into chairs as the honored spirit pressed cool drinks into their hands. They were much abashed, of course, but how could they go against a divine servant of their goddess?” He shakes his head, shoulders heaving with mirth. “Taranis herself suggested that this year, they must remember Shelyn’s urgings that an artist should never put art before health, erring instead on the side of hilarity. There was resistance, but as you can see, they’ve now taken to the theme with gusto.”
“That’s true?!” I exclaim. “I thought surely all that about the dapsara was just invented by the players who wintered in Coppervale.”
The Desnan can but shrug, helpless and happy in it. “Sometimes reality is as absurd as any stageplay.”
Any further musings are cut short by a sonorous, bitterly-proper voice from beneath the shaggy bows of a great tree astride the plaza, from a divan attended by myriad fan-waving servants. Its source is a noble matron in black dress of far too many ruffles and too-tight corset, though the fine execution of her makeup and beautifully-coifed grey hair preserve her from being truly ridiculous. Of course, the gown is close-fronted, no skin shown. Even her delicate hands are enclosed by tight black gloves. A dour black hat with a joyless red ribbon completes the wraithish guise, and hard grey eyes pronounce that this is a woman of high class regarding one of very, very low—the latter, naturally, being me.
“Really?” she scoffs. “Do you even know how to use that weapon? I dare say you couldn’t draw it if you tried, let alone control the swing! Armasse is a day of respite for the brave warriors of Mendev, not an amnesty for parading trollops. Have some pride, girl.”
I glance to Kavel, doing my utmost to conceal the instinctive, irrational thrill of lust at being called a trollop. He offers a sympathetic wince. “Under the laws and customs of the city of Kenabres, this will be considered a valid debate about the purpose and limitations of Armasse, provided that neither of you wields anything sharper than a word.”
I return my gaze to the foe, armoring my heart against the cold triumph she smirks. Of itself, talking to this woman is pointless, yet in answering I may be heard by others. Grave though the risk be if I lose my temper, it’s a sound way to make myself visible to sympathetic souls. Thus I frown, and speak. “I do have pride. ‘tis pride in myself gives me the boldness to dress so. Does not Shelyn teach us that beauty restores the spirit? I mean only to share my beauty with my comrades, that they may be bolstered by it.”
“You?” she sneers. “Beautiful? Beauty is grown of propriety and elegance. A sophisticated, civilized maiden is beautiful. I know you understand that, deny it as you may—even you, with your own voice, imitate the refined accent of Taldor. And a passable imitation it is, though shallow—if only you had taken anything else to heart! Yours is nothing but a perverse carnality.”
Even knowing exactly why I’ve cultivated that accent, it still stings. She’s closer to the mark than she’ll ever know.
“Nothing?” Jemmin exclaims, disbelieving. “Our Cav’s the most beautiful woman there’s ever been, inside and out! You ought to be weeping with gratitude for the chance to stand in her shadow, you puffed-up, sneering, shriveled excuse for a—!”
“Jem, please,” I hold out a hand to still her. “I thank you, truly, but let me speak for myself.”
‘A perverse carnality’—how right the dryc*nt is! I do love an accidental compliment. Would that I could snarl everything I think of “Mendev the pure, Mendev the civilized”—what is that but the gibber of Taldans yet again paving over someone else’s land with a mirror, and praising their own reflections?! But the law does not say, ‘Penalty for hateful conduct,’ the law says, ‘penalty for any act likely to cause conflict within the Crusade.’ A whor* with horns trying to change the order that wants her dead is just as forbidden as naked hate.
“The Iobarians are the native children of our fair country,” I say, with all the poise I can muster, “and in their own villages they find no fault with this dress. Much the contrary.”
I miss Krega. Visions of fragant paints trailed by deft fingers on my belly, the half-moon silvering the leaves above, the shape of many crossbred primals the Chief Druid shifted into as the stars shimmered so very other on that strange eve… so other, yet so very right. And with the urgency of rut, with two hybrid co*cks and a triumphal roar from many blended jaws of wolf, wildcat, bear, and more, she took me there under the shadow-bedecked boughs, and I felt I understood something forgotten by Golarion at large many bitter ages ago.
“The Iobarians are backwards savages!” the noblewoman scoffs. “Is it any wonder they need us to save them from the demons? Really, they should be grateful we allow them to remain at all!”
“But,” I venture, “it is a matter of historical fact, is it not, that the pipes, which feed water from the Sellen into the city to this day, were built by its first inhabitants? Who would have been Iobarians, would they not?”
“The pipes?” she laughs harshly. “Pah! You Pitspawn are simple-minded! Only a creature of Abyss-touched idiocy could think pipes were any sort of achievement!”
Again I glance to Kavel, whose answer comes rigidly: “According to the law, having chosen to speak with Baroness Estral, you have consented to hear any relevant opinions which she holds. Interpretations of what is 'relevant' may be settled by a city court if you have an objection you wish to raise, and the gold to pay for it.”
“So be it.” I shift my footing, stance half-consciously widened. Damn it, I shouldn’t have done that! Bracing as though for a fight shows I feel threatened, and by that glint of glee in the Baroness’ eyes, I know she’s read just that. Tightness creeping into my voice, I riposte: “Areelu Vorlesh was human when she opened the Worldwound.”
The glee makes the barb, so simple and inarguable, prick all the harsher. For a moment her eyes flare, and I flatter myself she might lapse into an outburst that’ll let our cleric nail her to the wall… ha! Our cleric. How easy it is to think of Kavel thus. But of course, a society matron would not survive if she could be so easily trapped. “Bah!” the wretched woman laughs, brushing at the air as if my words have left a noxious odor. “She was Sarkorian, a debauched and painted witch of the North! If the Iobarians are savages, then the Sarkorians were animals. Filthy barbarian hordes, rag-shod and rapacious, like all Kellids! Abyss-touched from birth, I say, the lot of them!”
Burn this. “You know what?” Defiantly, I lift my chin, eyes flaring. Though my lips smile around my words, the fangs behind press too tightly together to call a grin. “So what if it is, also, perverse carnality? I have a magnificent body. I like flaunting it. I like having it appreciated. I. Like. Sex. Is any of that illegal in Kenabres?”
The harridan’s eyes flash, and in the twist of her smile I see the certainty she can twist this into a means to destroy me—then a bootheel clicks behind me, and her glee rots into terror.
“It’s not illegal,” drawls the tallest woman I’ve ever seen, a statuesque redhead with bronzy brown skin. Into her locks, a golden streak is blended. ‘neath her sculpted face, she’s shod in thick black fabric, armored at forearms and collar, with golden buckles—a gambeson with an ankle-length hem, almost like a priestly robe, yet form-fitting at waist, hips, and shoulders, and a corset-like plate below the bust. At one hip a massive whip hangs, its coils of black and gold braid seeming to tense like a viper’s. And those boots--towering, heeled, steel-toed. Nowthosemust be wonderful for caving in a knee!“And I certainly hope it is not a problem. The Lady in the Room would be very unhappy to hear someone slandering a favorite domain.”
She cants her head ever so slightly. “Of course, you wouldn’t say anything like that. Would you, Lady Estral?” The stress she places on ‘Lady’, silk laced with razors… it’s a masterpiece. On her breath, the older woman’s nobility becomes a pitiful thing, a mark of shame.
“O-o-of course not, Chaplain Blackthorn!” the baroness babbles, hands raised in warding. “You know how deep is my respect for Calistria and her faithful. I had no idea this fine young lady was under your patronage, else I would, of course, have offered her refreshment!”
Ha! Respect for Calistria’s assassins, more like! By the faint smile of victory Blackthorn permits herself, I know she’s thinking just the same. “It’s alright,” she fairly purrs. “And please, do reach out to us at the temple if you’re ever confused in the future.” She motions to Estral’s servants. “Carry on. I think the heat may have affected the baroness more than she realizes.”
“Hahaha, yes!” Estral nearly sobs, her servants having already resumed their fanning at Fyerah's bidding. “Quite right, quite right! My sincere apologies, young lady—I have no idea what came over me!”
I smile, just a little bit more wolfish than accounted for by the set of my mouth. “But of course, baroness. It’s only right that we should show each other a little grace. The cause places such strain on us all. I accept your apology.”
I turn from her to my rescuer, motion for her to walk with me, and once we’ve passed on far enough not to be overhead I murmur, “thank you.”
“It was my pleasure. Truly.” She offers her hand. “Fyerah Blackthorn. I overheard your,” she pauses, an eyebrow raising, “debate. I would’ve interceded sooner, but to all things there is a critical moment. I needed to wait for the right opening. Fortunately, you gave me a perfect one.”
“I dare say half the Plaza heard it… her side of it, anyway...” I grind my fangs anxiously. I take her hand, but little of my mind’s on the answering squeeze and shake. My own voice is a foreign thing as it softly declares, "Cavanna Amelis."
Oh, gods, what was I thinking? All that pageantry just to make myself visible to a few imaginary allies? I’m sure they don’t suspect I’m an inquisitorial plant—no, I just look such an utter fool that only a fool would dare approach me!
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Fyerah smiles, half reassuring, half with a sadness I couldn’t begin to place. “The baroness has lived in Kenabres for thirty years, now, ever since she was disowned by her family back in Taldor.” Oh, of f*cking course she was. “She has had nothing to occupy herself but wallowing in bitterness and memorizing every nook and cranny of city law. If not for your,” she frowns, struggling with her words.
“My underprivileged status?” I supply.
“Yes,” Fyerah nods. “But for that, nothing about your final argument would have been mistaken. You handled yourself better than anyone should have to, but every aspect of legality here is built to trap people like you in unwinnable positions.” She lowers her head. “I’m sorry. There is no excuse for the way Kenabres treats tieflings. None.”
I sigh. “Thank you. It gladdens me at least that a solid portion of the city’s clergy see how loathsome it is, and use your status to help where you can. I have been meaning to ask… so… I read the city laws on the way here. As a priestess of Calistria, and from your outfit I would guess a war cleric?” She nods, and I continue, “under Kenabres law, you have the authority to sanction prostitutes, permitting us to work in the city without risk of prosecution.”
“Ah!” her brows raise. “So, you are a pleasure-worker?”
I nod, feeling the greatest part of the weight at last fall from my shoulders. I can bear most anything else so long as I needn’t suffocate my lust. “Yes. Six years now, since first I came of age, save for a dry spell in the first months after my love was lost in battle against the Worldwound.”
“And she’s good,” Jemmin puts in, nodding emphatically. “Lose-your-mind good.”
“Risky thinking good,” Troliks agrees.
Again, that shadow of sadness. Fyerah knuckles her chin, thinking long and hard, a worried crease to her eyes. My heartbeat swiftens with worries of my own, and a pit most unkind yawns wider by the second into the flesh of my stomach. Then she lifts her eyes to mine, and I hold my breath, and she nods. “That, and the way you carried yourself with Baroness Estral, are sufficient for me. From this moment, Cavanna Amelis, you are under the protection of the Savored Sting. I will defend you as I would one of my lady’s own sacred prostitutes. Oh, and, uh,” she relaxes, a wry humor dancing in that gorgeous face, “welcome to Kenabres.”
“Welcome, eh?” I laugh, “call me mad, but I just might be starting to feel it!” I gesture. “We were on our way to the Desnans, and the Shelynites, by a joint invitation of priests Varathi and Selsic. Care to join us?”
“Why not?” Fyerah smiles. “It should be amusing enough to pass the time ‘til the opening ceremonies, and I can think of no better place to keep watch. Trouble seems drawn to you, Miss Amelis.”
I flash a winsome smile. “Of course it is. Have you seen me?”
She furrows her brow, neither approving nor disapproving. “You are undeniably comely,” she agrees, now guarded. Blast it… what did I say wrong? Never mind that. Fyerah seems the sort of woman who’ll tell me if she wishes me to know. Otherwise, best not dwell on it. On this difficult note, we resume our stroll, and as we emerge from the crowd into the ring of clear space ‘round the pavilion, I surrender happily to relief. There… for today, at least, the hard part’s over.
