[Changeling] A Gathering of Mists IC II: Some things just need doing

[PhoeKun]

Downtown San Francisco has a lot of dispatch stations. It's a good thing that Stephanie called for a broken leg. When Kalina heard the sound of sirens wailing outside, she at least knew that it would probably just be one ambulance, not an entire fire task force or a SWAT team.

Kalina shakes her head and continues making for the exit. Maybe she'd meet the paramedics on the way out, and maybe she'd manage to get out before they hit the building proper. Utterly irrelevant, as they lack both the manpower and the authority to stop her from walking away.

She steps past the bat, into the office (and the light), and walks calmly to the front door. A moment's pause; she adjusts Stephanie's weight in her arms so she can open the door.

Exeunt, Rose.

[Anarion]

As Charlotte calls out after Arthur, you hear, despite the muffled sound from the door, a very distinct choking sound, or perhaps retching. Nevertheless, a moment later there is the sound of a large metallic bar sliding and then dropping against wood and the door swings open to show Arthur standing there, a grand carpeted hall spread out behind him, dimly lit by torches.

"Enter" he says tersely.

Exeunt, Rose.

As Rose is walking through the main lit room, the front door opens and two paramedics enter, one carrying a large red duffle bag that looks quite heavy and has several zip compartments.

In the bright light, Stephanie looks like almost nothing. A wisp of a shadow, almost like cradling a bundle of black cloth rather than a person. Rose is also covered with some blood, especially on her legs from stomping on the broken knee.

When the paramedics see Rose there, cradling her bundle, they stop. "Ma'am, we heard that someone here has a broken leg. You look like you're healthy, could you direct us to where the person is hurt?"

They are looking over Rose as they speak, and she has enough knowledge from her time living on the street to realize that they're standing in way that indicates they're not planning on letting her leave.

[PhoeKun]

"Ma'am, we heard that someone here has a broken leg. You look like you're healthy, could you direct us to where the person is hurt?"

They are looking over Rose as they speak, and she has enough knowledge from her time living on the street to realize that they're standing in way that indicates they're not planning on letting her leave.

"You'll find them in the back, just past the door into the warehouse. Please hurry. I did my best with it, but the damage is really bad."

Kalina leans onto her back foot and gestures behind her with a nod of her head. Held back for the moment, but not for long. She exhales deeply, troubled.

[Anarion]

They look at each other, then back at Rose. "Could you come with us, please? We're going to go take a look and it could be really important to know how the injury happened so we can treat it properly."

They gesture towards the back area and urge Rose to begin walking that way.

[SiuiS]

"Enter" he says tersely.

Two rolls of the fingers bunch her skirts in her hand. Subtle vertigo as she inclines her head, bends her knee. Charlotte curtsies. "Merci. I will save the formal introductions," she purloins, "as it implies we will be meeting regularly, non?. Suffice this is March, my... Liaison in affairs of business. You may fid she is just as irritated with myself as you are, Monsieur.

"To expedite, Monsieur, where would the servants' quarters be?"

[Anarion]

Two rolls of the fingers bunch her skirts in her hand. Subtle vertigo as she inclines her head, bends her knee. Charlotte curtsies. "Merci. I will save the formal introductions," she purloins, "as it implies we will be meeting regularly, non?. Suffice this is March, my... Liaison in affairs of business. You may fid she is just as irritated with myself as you are, Monsieur.

"To expedite, Monsieur, where would the servants' quarters be?"

"Down the hall. Turn right instead of going into the club. There's only one door, that's it."

Arthur spares a smile for Marchande. "If you're irritated at that nut job, maybe you're not all bad."

[SiuiS]

A smile, another curtsy. Charlotte knows now how to get to the club (did she not before?) and knows the door played her sour, and entrance isn't as easy as to open a portal and walk in (is it ever?). It is up to Marchande then to get access to the glamour they both need.

She hurries along to the servants' area. Access to all the castle through back rooms as unobtrusive passages was a perk, but really she was after what clothes were around to spare what WW left of her spring gift. Charlotte suppresses a shudder at what her poor clothes have gone through.

[PhoeKun]

Kalina shakes her head.

"She took a shot to the knee. It got worse from there, I had to apply a tourniquet to keep her from bleeding out. The job I did was sloppy - she isn't going to last unless you get in there and start giving her priority. So hurry up!"

The urgency rises into her throat without her quite meaning it to. There's an odd sort of desperation about watching healers hang back and ignore a dying woman so that they can ogle some supposed criminal a bit longer.

She's done waiting. They gesture behind her, but Rose pushes forward. For Stephanie's sake, and for Anna's... for every child in San Francisco, she didn't have time to screw with a pair of paramedics.

[Raz_Fox]

Marchande steps inside after Charlotte, surprised that she's not the tallest person in the room again. The hulking man of rocks is just slightly taller than she is. It's disconcerting, and makes her ever-so-slightly on edge. He's no Rose, though, that was for sure.

Being referred to as a liaison makes Marchande smile. Charlotte's learning, even now; it's a deft insertion of Marchande into the narrative that she's not privy to, a role for her to play beyond "stands and looks pretty". Business is something she can take care of, or, at least, something she wants to think she can.

Arthur spares a smile for Marchande. "If you're irritated at that nut job, maybe you're not all bad."

Troublesome, to say the least. Marchande hesitates, glancing at Charlotte beating a retreat off to the servant's quarters. It'd be easy to fall back on condescension. But Charlotte's earned some slack, and so Marchande takes a breath, cool and sharp, and says, "Broken things don't always remain so, sir. To get straight to the point, I'm here on court business." Technically not a lie, but only barely. "We're going to require a well-lit area and a canvas for Charlotte's use, and a ready source of Glamour. Thank you for your hospitality; you..." She trails off, unable to complete the thought. Masters and slaves are all very fairy-tale, but the word seems vile to her, especially here where the normal rules don't apply anymore. "You do your employer credit," she finally compromises.

[Anarion]

She's done waiting. They gesture behind her, but Rose pushes forward. For Stephanie's sake, and for Anna's... for every child in San Francisco, she didn't have time to screw with a pair of paramedics.

The paramedics exchange a look, but then both hurry to the back room. As she's walking out, Rose hears them try to fumble with the lights to no avail and the distinctive click of a flashlight going on, followed by a very loud expletive as the door closes behind Rose.

Outside, the flashing lights and siren of the ambulance have attracted a few people that had been walking the downtown streets. The mix seems to be pretty broad. A couple homeless bums, a man and woman in business suits that were probably working late and curious, and a couple people in casual jeans and a t-shirt that were probably out drinking, though it's hard to tell if they were coming or going at a glance.

Unfortunately for Stephanie's plan, there don't appear to be any obvious evil gang members hanging out to be chased back to their leader's vile secret lair.

"Broken things don't always remain so, sir. To get straight to the point, I'm here on court business." Technically not a lie, but only barely. "We're going to require a well-lit area and a canvas for Charlotte's use, and a ready source of Glamour. Thank you for your hospitality; you..." She trails off, unable to complete the thought. Masters and slaves are all very fairy-tale, but the word seems vile to her, especially here where the normal rules don't apply anymore. "You do your employer credit," she finally compromises.

Arthur frowns. He doesn't much like being told off and was expecting some agreement from Marchande. In reply he says "Well, you can use an empty room, that's no problem. Don't have any canvas though, this is a nightclub and nobody here paints. Might be some printer paper or something you can use.

As for glamour: that ain't free."

[Raz_Fox]

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Arthur frowns. He doesn't much like being told off and was expecting some agreement from Marchande. In reply he says "Well, you can use an empty room, that's no problem. Don't have any canvas though, this is a nightclub and nobody here paints. Might be some printer paper or something you can use.

As for glamour: that ain't free."

Marchande, for her part, plays her role well. She sees his disappointment and gives a pleased professional smile and a nod when he says that they can use an empty room, and she takes his lack of canvas in good grace. Charlotte can just use a wall, and they'll face the consequences later.

Even when he states, brusquely, that the glamour won't be free, she doesn't get angry. She simply nods, as if she'd expected that. "As a recent arrival in San Francisco, I cannot promise much in the way of material goods, but I would be happy to use some small measure of gifted glamour to grant propitious fortune to any endeavor you may have in mind, if that is what you mean. Similarly, I would owe you a favor - appropriate to the situation, of course - if you would rather have service from a Marchande who is more solidly entrenched in her life and strength. Either way, I am sure that we can come to an arrangement that is beneficial to all parties." And by all parties, she mostly means herself. She's fairly confident that she can talk her way around him and leave him feeling like he just squeezed an awesome deal out of a bodacious broad.

[Anarion]

Marchande, for her part, plays her role well. She sees his disappointment and gives a pleased professional smile and a nod when he says that they can use an empty room, and she takes his lack of canvas in good grace. Charlotte can just use a wall, and they'll face the consequences later.

Even when he states, brusquely, that the glamour won't be free, she doesn't get angry. She simply nods, as if she'd expected that. "As a recent arrival in San Francisco, I cannot promise much in the way of material goods, but I would be happy to use some small measure of gifted glamour to grant propitious fortune to any endeavor you may have in mind, if that is what you mean. Similarly, I would owe you a favor - appropriate to the situation, of course - if you would rather have service from a Marchande who is more solidly entrenched in her life and strength. Either way, I am sure that we can come to an arrangement that is beneficial to all parties." And by all parties, she mostly means herself. She's fairly confident that she can talk her way around him and leave him feeling like he just squeezed an awesome deal out of a bodacious broad.

"Yeah, you want to do a deal for glamour? We can do a deal for glamour. You do me a big favor that I pick later, you get glamour. How's 'zat sound?"

[Offered pledge: 1 week duration (+1), Marchande would do a greater favor (-3) and receive a boon of glamour immediately (+2).]

[Raz_Fox]

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"Yeah, you want to do a deal for glamour? We can do a deal for glamour. You do me a big favor that I pick later, you get glamour. How's 'zat sound?"

[Offered pledge: 1 week duration (+1), Marchande would do a greater favor (-3) and receive a boon of glamour immediately (+2).]

Big favor. The only worse thing, Marchande instinctively guesses, would be the word very included in there. She'd tried to hint that he should be prudent, given her wording, but if he was being greedy she might as well teach him a little lesson about abusing the generosity of others.

"Hmmmm, that does sound interesting, but I think I can do one better," she says, trying to make an adjustment to her role: she is, to his eyes, the businesswoman who thinks she's being clever, but isn't quite as clever as he is. "I could make sure that a wonder happens here, before I go back home. You get all your miracles right up front, big boy, and you're even getting a recompense - after all, I'll have to use at least some of that Glamour to make sure it comes to pass. Guaranteed results or your glamour back." She gives him a just-between-us-friends wink; the professional breaks her distance for a moment, reminds the mark that he's valued, that he doesn't need to worry. "What do you say? Fair's fair, or I don't know what is."

[I'd like to sweet-talk him into not thinking too much about the adjusted wording, if the wording wouldn't just get him to roll over and agree. Manipulation+Persuasion (+Trust Me Specialty).

Offered Pledge: one day's duration (+1), Marchande must assist Charlotte in creating her wondrous painting (-1, medial), will receive a boon of Glamour immediately (+2) and will return the boon of Glamour if she breaks the pledge (-2).]

[Anarion]

[I just want to clarify for you that as a Wyrd 1 changeling, you can get at most a single point of glamour from a glamour pledge. Not sure if that makes this whole ordeal less worthwhile for you, feel free to edit.]

[Anarion]

"No deal," says Arthur. "You want glamour, you gotta pay some other way. And guests ain't arrivin for another few hours, so don't think you can just mooch off the bar neither."

[SiuiS]

Charlotte, shaking the dust of years from an old, plain shirt, looks to Marchande. "We could wait, Madame, though if the room is good our journey may be over. Perhaps that would be best, so we could speak to Peter about the imposition?"

[Raz_Fox]

For a moment Marchande is flustered, unsure of what to do. She can't look like an idiot, uncontrolled, shown up by some craggy worker in front of Charlotte. So she improvises.

She pats him condescendingly on the cheek, and says, "Well, if you want a fair deal later, you'll know where to find me. Come along, Charlotte, we'll find the room ourselves. Unless you'd prefer to show us the way, sir?"

[Anarion]

She pats him condescendingly on the cheek, and says, "Well, if you want a fair deal later, you'll know where to find me. Come along, Charlotte, we'll find the room ourselves. Unless you'd prefer to show us the way, sir?"

"I'd prefer to put my fist where the sun don't shine. Now hurry the hell up" he says, stomping off. It had looked like he was seriously contemplating actually biting her finger off for a second there.

[Raz_Fox]

Marchande straightens herself as Arthur leaves, rocking back on her heels as she inhales; she becomes almost ramrod-stiff for a moment, all pent-up tension and control and a smile like glass - strong, brilliant, brittle. Then she exhales, her shoulders loosen, she turns to Charlotte with a smile. "Well, come along then, Charlotte." She pats her on the shoulder, pointing off down the corridor. "We've got work to do."

[SiuiS]

"Oui, Madame." Charlotte watches Arthur leave with some trepidation – have they made an enemy? Poisoned words in a minotaur's ear at the right time could be disastrous...

Shake it off. Inhale, swell, churn. The fire breathes, alive inside her, flares from its banked point for a moment, still in check for now, but straining. Her fingers itch, half color and sensation pushing through the flesh like sprouts through soil, vines seekin the sun of expression, roots to burrow into a canvas and feed, and part in hazy half remembered pain as fire licks along each delicate digit, darkening her skin and nails from ivory to amber to umber.

"We should look for a room with a high window to the north or west, Madame, or as close as can be." She folds the sides of the shirt rhythmically, slips it on and belts it like a gi-top with the band from her coat. "I spied a pantry on the way, and there may be a room near the Master's chambers if all else fails."

Dutifully, the girl walks along with the hound as though on a leash.

[PhoeKun]

Unfortunately for Stephanie's plan, there don't appear to be any obvious evil gang members hanging out to be chased back to their leader's vile secret lair.

Stephanie's plan had gone out the window the moment she blew herself up trying to destroy that goblet. To charge in alone and sacrifice yourself for a greater cause... the idea seems so noble until you run up against it.

Kalina spares a glance the few wisps of shadow that comprised her companion, and shakes her head in disgust. This had been plan A. And only now did she realize that the game was even bigger than she'd imagined it could be; the horrifying scope of Paladin's plans and her utter lack of preparedness for them.

The warehouse looms behind her, surrounded by curious passers by and other ordinary citizenry. Kalina hesitates for a moment... no. That trail has run cold. No pursuit; she'd have to gamble that she'd left enough of a mark here to draw the enemy's attention to her. Supernatural hunger gnaws at her in tag team with the regular kind. Kalina presses on.

When you're a hero, you track down the enemy and break his lines by yourself. The going is tough, but the story is a forgone conclusion, because heroes don't fall to villains. They triumph. But... Rose is not a hero. Kalina is not a hero. That was all a show, a game. How quickly we forget. So she does what normal people do in situations like this - ask for help.

Doubtlessly Qian Long would be too busy being a queen to accept another audience herself, but the court and the freehold are all Rose can think to turn to. Time's wasting. Go try.

[Anarion]

Dutifully, the girl walks along with the hound as though on a leash.

The castle stairs are back the way they came. Each floor seems to be structured in a more or less double square shape with branching hallways going left and right at each end of the castle. Rather like a number 8, but a bit more square.

Compass directions don't have much meaning in here, as the sun is unclear and indistinct, but there are at least three large bedrooms besides Peter's room on the second floor, each with a bay window. Other unlocked rooms include a study with no window, two offices with small windows set up high, one bathroom with a large dark marble tub, and a medium-sized drawing room with an entrance out to one of the parapets.

The third floor stairs are locked at present, as are several other rooms

[a.k.a. the storyteller never made a full floor plan of the place, but has a general sense of how big it is.]

Time's wasting. Go try.

[Waiting on a person or location, or if you have no idea and want to strike out aimlessly, I could narrate that as well.]

[Anarion]

It takes a little while to reach Swifthoof's house. Rose has to through part of the downtown, back to the main street, Market Street, that cuts a diagonal through the city, then work her way along that for the better part of two miles.

Stephanie is light, as a shadow, really. But carrying dead weight is still dead weight, and two miles with a heavy burden is wearing on anyone, no matter how strong.

It is the dead of night when Kalina reaches Swifthoof's home. Past midnight. He doesn't answer his door at first, but repeated knocking eventually does result in a light flickering on downstairs, following by a yawning "who's there" and the door opening when Kalina identifies herself.

She is treated to the sight of a gazelle man wearing a navy blue dressing gown and night cap with a poofy pompom on the end of it, and looking a combination of tired, annoyed, and extremely concerned.

[PhoeKun]

Worn and haggard, exhausted and drained on every physical, emotional, and even supernatural front, Kalina is a beautiful mess standing in Swifthoof's front door. Hair out of place, eyes unfocused, wings drooping, she's falling apart in the way Hollywood actors do in films she's never seen. Counterpoint to the sight of a gazelle in a sleeping cap. An outside observer would find it funny if it weren't so strangely sad.

"I'm... sorry for the intrusion. I didn't know where else to turn. We're..." deep breath, exhale. Kalina lifts Stephanie up a bit and gestures at her, "We're in over our heads."

She waits a moment to be let inside, trying to find the right words to ask for help with.

In the end, 'words' are not found so much as a frenzied torrent of explanation of everything she's discovered and done the past few nights, of Paladin and kidnapped children and their torture for the creation of fuel for a ritual. Of the hunt and the finding of the warehouse, and here her voice breaks, if only for a moment, into a very un-Kalina-like panic when she starts the telling of everything she saw in there, how she was overmatched and underprepared and incapable of so much scratching the detestable goblet. Logically, there had to be more to it than just the one, but she has no idea where and just look at Stephanie, so...

Inhale again. Exhale. Rose fights off the beginnings of tears and regains Herself.

"...I can't sit by and do nothing. I... we need help. And I didn't know where else to turn."

[Anarion]

Swifthoof listens to the story, becoming more fidgety and nervous as it goes, but not interrupting Rose, even as he squirms in his chair and his eyes bulge.

"Bridge Burners" he says when she finishes. "Important, dangerous. Do not have chalice, unfortunate. No physical injury on shadow Stephanie. Will awaken soon, very soon, most probable. Need help, yes, but full court unlikely to act. Too dangerous, too destabilizing. Violence, dangerous for changelings. Likely to unhinge weaker minds.

Could find help, perhaps. Chain of contacts, to find changeling willing to help. Start with martial arts dojo. Will write down address. Lightning brawler, present there often. Will have connections. If possible, find chalice, discern method of gathering glamour, disrupt. More effective than direct confrontation, possibly presaging such.

May stay here tonight, please refrain from regular habit of midnight wakings, very disruptive."

He writes down the dojo address for Kalina, and helps to place Stephanie on the couch. He offers some food as well, toast and a little warm milk as his first suggestions. Then he heads back to bed.

About three hours after arriving at Swifthoof's, in the true dead of night, when barely anything is moving and not a sound is to be heard, and cloaked amidst darkness, Stephanie begins to stir. And to realize that she wouldn't have a migraine this bad if somebody had taken a sledgehammer straight to her skull.

[Thanqol]

Stephanie sat bolt upright in less than a second. "Did we wi - owhhhhh,"

The headache hadn't moved quite as fast as her instincts, but it was a terrible loser.

She lay back down.

[SiuiS]

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Consolidation: Ingredients.
Ingredients will be blended, in much the same way as cooking, to produced more rarified regeants. The only truly ephemeral ingredients remaining are;
- Guardian’s loyalty
- Je ne sais quoi
- The fire of inspiration (potentially)
All else is mixed with and folded into solid ingredients.
-3 on the rolls. Wits 3, crafts 4. Painting specialty 1, unsure if it applies. Contracts of Artifice +1, tools at hand (paints, brush) +1, dice pool of 65, keep confusing artifice ands forge, modified by contract. Use of literal blood and similar in crafting meets the catch for verdant spring, No glamour cost, free dice on crafting (thank goodness….) at wits3 + empathy3 + mantle1 for 7 dice on the support roll.

Glamour is at 7, down from 10 due to cloak of elements and forging a necklace. May end up compacting Marchande for Glamour, actually, if she would be amenable. Wwe will assume the cloak of the elements is still active, if only for fun.

Dicepool for hedgespinning: 5, 6 with specialty.
Dicepool for contract: 7

Let’s get going, then?

Charlotte, on Marchande’s heels, enters a room with walls of stone. The light from the window, or door, or some other portal casts it in a strange, chalky alabaster. In her focus, narrow and coy and ever so sharp, she does not see the room, not truly, does not take in it’s location other than so many steps from the stairs, a turn and a twist. There is no map, now, merely canvas of stone, with need of primer, and distance measured in hurried footsteps around which pleats of old shirt swish at the hips. A memory…

”which box is bigger?” the man with the hair said.
”That one,” his companion points. The bigger box.
The man with the hair and the smile and the wicked mad gleam of his eye moves, then, to set the big box down and hold the small right in front of her. “and now?” he asks.
“why, that one still, this one is just closer. It only looks bigger.”
“Exactly!” he cries, in the mad logic of the place. Now if that box stayed over there, but we brought it over here, it could fit inside this smaller box.”

Charlotte almost recognizes her first real memory of life Before, almost. But no, there is life now, in the moment, in the future as projected, flights of fancy spinning a new weave to follow. Her focus keeps her mind’s eye off the reality of the place (such that it has) and into the proper spaces for such things as dimensional boxes and paintings which bear fruit for friends. It keeps her in tune, and perhaps that is what really called her here?

A few spaces and turn, and there is a larder. Old sacks of flour, dragged laboriously back, sweat running down her arms, into her eyes. She wipes it from her brow with her belt, returns, wipes her face and arms on Marchande’s coat tails to indignant protests, wrings them out; The essence of bruin musk flows with the fluid into the flour sack, the flour itself. Understanding, a glimmer. Good. Questions now would be… They would break her focus.

The castle is old, unused. Cobwebs abound, somehow, webs without spiders, and some old twigs caught in Charlotte’s hair wrapped in a spiral of spider silk and fluffed with the few remaining tufts of Kalina’s armored feather presents a brush that cuts through the air like knives, needles, stabbing and bleeding art from the world around it. The flour becomes a paste, almost, a rue to mix with goblin due as the sun bathes the droplets that linger in the leaves. A needle’s prick, a drop of blood. More, and more, and more some more, her teeth working her fingernails to fine powder before she grinds them with her heel, mixing them in. Mud, sweat, tears, blood, The worry of a friend who watches the door dutifully but looks back, evrey so often, fleeting glimpses of fear and worry and despair, and… Is that a desire for sacrifice? Perhaps Marchande would do the hard work for her if she could, but Charlottte will never know. Charlotte needn’t know, really. She sighs, and spits, and collects.

The sacks of flour emptied, opened, she weaves together like a quilt with strands of hair. A tetured tapestry of silvergold thread and blank, stone grey broadcloth stuck to the wall with tenacity and baker’s paste. Mud, far too thick for the quantity on hand, crosses the whoel, blending it into one wall of smooth dull finish as the bear’s essence trails from the fabric. And the entire time, her arms itch, the burn of the fire’s caress still aching, but now backed by something new, the feeling of seed shoots erupting from her flesh, the fertile soil of her soul – or lack thereof. The stage is set, andCharlotte’s passion to create, to sculpt and form and bring life to an idea the world should know and embrace cannot longer be contained.

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((Font of Inspiration: 0, 9, 0, 4, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1, 3, 1, 8 – Goddess! ))
((Hedgespinning 5 + 7 = 12: 2, 8, 6, 2, 0, 1, 8, 0, 4, 8, 8, 7, 0, 6, 0, 8; 9/18 successes))

The light mingles on the tapestry, or soon to be tapestry, the wall embedded within a wall of smooth clay. The paints glisten in their petals, the brush spins in her hand, and Charlotte stands, small wisps of smoke steaming from her fingertips beneath the grip on brush and hip. She raises, looks, thinks.

The brushtip dips, swirls, lifts, a droplet of inspiration mingled with cobwebs of a fairytale castle catching the suspended blackened flecks of charred flesh. The light glints coyly off of her Fiery pendant, flashing strands of orange and amber across the room.

”Marchande, tell me… How do you feel about our dearest Rose, and her quest? And why did you come with me, instead of doing something useful? Why are you here instead of there?”
The words are hurtful. They are almost too much to say. But She needs this, she needs to hear it, to have Marchande’s temper flare, her righteous indignation over guarding this frail moppet who thinks to dance in the ring of fire is divine, and not madness. She needs heat tempered by reason, iron will holding killing frenzy, ther gnashing roar and bark of an angry hound bound to task by Woman’s will. The first designs of sword appear, traced in life sized cross upon the wall. And as marchande speaks, quick as cricket’s legs, Charlotte chirps out the words of her friend, her companion, her social guardian, it seems, in beautiful cursive up and down the blade, defining the edge in harsh strokes of italic passion, the forms of the guardian’s armor in strokes of pleading, need, anger, hurt, duty. She begins, halfway, to tear up, and wipes her eyes with burning fingers, the steamy salty drops sizzling away in a puff of glamour, charging the air. The light shifts, with time.

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((Font of Inspiration: 0, 2, 9, 3, 9, 2, 3, 7))
((Hedgespinning 5 + 3 =8: 8, 6, 4, 2, 3, 4, 1, 4; 10/18 Successes, 5 G remaining))

”Please, Marchande, please…. That’s enough, s-stop!” Charlotte chokes out, ”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, excuse. I need… I needed that.” And it was true, she did. She really did, but oh, that biting tongue! No, such sorrow would not do, too swirling ad blue like deep ocean balls where the fish swim coldly to black hag’s tune. No, reds and yellows, golden bright! That is what Charlotte needs, that is what she desires, now. The caress of fire, the warmth of the hearth, the swell of justice, so new and hot in her breast. And the reckless abandon as she spins in the fire, laughing like tinkling glass breaking in the heat.

The guardian takes shape, now, slowly, the defined colors of armor and skin mixing with the shining limning of gold and red, the fires dancing up her arms while she demarcates the blush of cheeks, the flush of life, the passion of such a being. Rose, you are beautiful, such a picture cries, but you are Sharp, too, too sharp by half. A hedgerose, guarded and thorned, and that is what comes forth amidst the chiming laughter. The figure forms and the light shifts again, the fire of her pendant dancing now across her arms, her shoulders, like a feather boa of ephemeral violence. She does not look to see, but surely MArchande would have stepped out by now, the heat almost too much, the mud dried now, the paints maintain their freshness only in the sweat and tears she exudes. Still, the friendly guardian waits, she knows, waits and watches, armor against the night and it’s surprises. Solidarity, the bonds of friendship and more, caught in the sparkling crystal adamantine of goblin honey. This, too, she paints.

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((Font of Inspiration: 5, 4, 5, 7, 3, 0, 2, 9))
((Hedgespinning 5 + 2 = 7 :0, 3, 0, 1, 8, 1, 9, 0, 8, 6; 16/18 successes, 4 G remaining))

The light shifts, even more now, though almost irrelevant. The light of the room, the guiding points by which she paints, Charlotte emanates herself, fire of spring, and fruition, and fecundity. Her hair is frazzled, and beneath the mantle the smock begins to char and split, but she deos not care. Marhcande has long since left, matted with sweat and panting undiginified and scowling, and she does not care. Her wounds, so recently mended have reopened, blood boiling out and coating all in an amber dust of filigree and char, and she does not care, for the fire burns, the fire breathes, and as far as she cares the room is gone.

There is the hedge, like a presence. There is the light of creation, and the created forming, and her brush moves like aftertrails of light, zipping, flashing, cutting art from space like an acetylene torch touched by the muses, the paint takes and sinks in, the work finished, yet not. The scrap of cloth, holding her happiness, the bonds of freehold, of companionship, fire and water, dipped in tears, holds also the Master’s touch, ripped from his horn as it was, and the castle obeys. She varnishes the whole in a lacquer of tears and joy, first the armor, burnished by heat, then the wings which have caught and captured the splendor of the flames. The coils of hair and wan smile of a knowing knight, next, matte now with bits of the broadcloth texture showing through as Charlotte races her own fires of inspiration, seeking to capture that which is here in an instant, gone in a flash, and finally the sword blade itself, cracked now, still crystalline but ragged and yet, not. It is a superimposition, an open space across an endless expanse of dull steel carved with words of stewardship and devotion, that which is not of the form filled in with blazing filigree, and now Charlotte’s sense of justice, borrowed from their guardian angel who even now watches over the shadows, takes hold.

It is not right that such a thing be lost, it is not just that such a work be consumed in itself, it is not fair that all the hopes and dreams of her friends, herself, her… family, Kalina who must fight, Stephanie who must find, Marchande who must manage, should be let down because faerie magic has no scruples! The edges of the canvas curl, and she binds them with chains of focus, pouring her will into holding fast that which by it’s nature would be fleeting, keeping justice in the world to be dispensed and not released into the aether from Pandora’s Box.

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((Font of Inspiration: 2, 5, 2, 5, 9, 0, 4))
((Hedgespinning 5 + 2 = 7 + WP = 10: 9, 5, 1, 1, 3, 0, 8, 4, 3, 4, 6; 19/18 successes, 3 G remaining))

The wall burns away in the last of the fading sunlight, smoke streaming away like hours spent in idyll, and the heat begins to drop, baking out of the walls like a clay oven in the night. Peter would not want for comfort if the winter were to seize again it’s grasp this evening.

And there, standing in deafening silence now the crackle of heat and scrape of brush is gone, the kindling of twigs and hair long since spent, Charlotte falls to her knees with a thunk before the guardian who holds their prize - The sword of gold and stone streaming with words of intensity, pulsing like heated brick into the twilight. The chains at the doorway rattle now, unsuspended, and droop.


”… Marchande!”

[Anarion]

The angel of stone and light stands still, as Charlotte falls. Then stirs. It's wings flap, testing out their strength. Once, twice, a light wind and embers fill the air and singe those who stand nearby. It's silver armor flashes in the setting sun and glows red in the stone blade's light.

It turns the sword downward, placing the tip upon the ground and both palms upon the hilt, it's wings at rest as it stands at attention. And a deep voice, like thunder upon the plains, comes forth from the visored helm:

"YOU WHO SUMMON JUSTICE, WHAT IS YOUR DEMAND? AND BY WHAT RIGHT DO YOU STAKE YOUR CLAIM? SPEAK, AND SPEAK SWIFTLY."

[PhoeKun]

Stephanie sat bolt upright in less than a second. "Did we wi - owhhhhh,"

The headache hadn't moved quite as fast as her instincts, but it was a terrible loser.

She lay back down.

The first smile Kalina has allowed herself since the warehouse disaster began. She lets out a small puff of a half chuckle and shakes her head.

"You won the fight, yes. Now comes the war."

[Raz_Fox]

-Part One: The Walk-

There are explanations. Expositions. Merci, madame, did you know how we came here? (Yes, we just lived it.) No, not now, earlier. There was a curse, madame, a most frightful curse of hospitality! Stephanie tried to help him even though she'd set him on fire earlier. (Very forgiving of him.) She talked him into letting her poke around his head to sort through the curse, that's how we found out about it, madame. Don't worry about business, it's just business. (That makes no sense.) Pardon- pardon-

Marchande is the one who ducks into the rooms first, poking her head about and sniffing at the air, but Charlotte's the one who makes the call. The sound of their footsteps is muted by the vastness of stone. Rationally, Marchande knows that it's beautiful. Instinctively, she'd rather be in Stephanie's apartment, or in her borrowed bed at Swifthoof's. The need to step carefully, the tension and the anxiety, begin to wear one out after long enough. Magicians don't cast spells in bulk, after all - words and symbols of power are important to get right, and Faerie is very important to get right.

When the time comes, mademoiselle, please don't think of me. I'm not important- please remember that. (I haven't come this far to not consider you, Charlotte.) If you don't speak the truth, everything might not work. Merci, speak what you think. (I'm honest.) And just remember, please. We are almost done, but the painting isn't the end. Please protect me, Marchande. (I will.)

They walk on. One's short and skinny and carries fire on her breast. The other is tall and dark and walks like someone who wants to own the world, but knows she has to keep it a secret, or she'll be usurped. Their confidences are very different.


-Part Two: The Talk-

"Hmmm?" Marchande looks up from the floor, hands in her pockets. She has no idea if her talents will be useful here, so all she can do is guard. What is luck, even, in the context of painting? Painting is hard work and perseverance and the only time you really get lucky is when you notice you haven't run out of paint - and she doesn't want to run dry of glamour. For all that she hates what she's become, she's not about to throw away one of the last weapons she has left.

”Marchande, tell me," Charlotte repeats, in an airy and vapid tone. "How do you feel about our dearest Rose, and her quest? And why did you come with me, instead of doing something useful? Why are you here instead of there?” There was something in her tone that is barbed, almost perfectly primed for contempt. Marchande hesitates, rolling the words over in her head, prepares a reminder that she's just there to keep an eye on Charlotte- and Charlotte, without turning, states further: "After all, you aren't of much use here."

How dare she be so vacant, so vapid, so imbecilic? Had she forgotten so quickly how Marchande had carried her while she was burnt, how Marchande had shown her the way in, how Marchande did everything for her? "I'm here because you need someone to look after you, Charlotte. God! Have we not been over this a hundred times now? You have no idea how reality works, so I have to make sure you don't just dance right back there or fall into a bonfire because it's pretty and you, like a moth-" Restraint, restraint. You're better than this. "Because we both need to help Rose, and you think you can make a weapon to stop her from getting her head cut off by a maniac who walked right out of the crusades, who is going to use children as fuel. And that makes my blood boil, and it makes Rose want to go stop them, and we're going to help her do it. And if your head gets bitten off, well, you can't help Rose. And since we both want to help Rose, it's in our best interests to have me- the skinny woman who couldn't stop a football player- protect you. Because I know when to hold them, when to fold them, and when to run like hell, and I know the difference between fantasies and realities. And when you forget that difference I'll just smack you and-"

The edge has become sharp and contained. The sword cannot burst out of its edges, cannot shatter. "”Please, Marchande, please…. That’s enough, s-stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, excuse. I need… I needed that.” And to temper what she has said, because it was so sharp that it could slice open stitching when it was exasperation-become-anger again, she pats Charlotte on the head, even though Charlotte feels hot to the touch.

"I came because I wanted to keep you safe. Everyone deserves a friend." And that's the truth she keeps forgetting. She came constrained because she wanted to be the kind of person who would come of her own free will.


-Part Three: The Angel-

Marchande sits with her back to the door. The heat of a desert seeps through the cracks, rolls under the door, whispers through the frame, and sweat rolls down her brow. Her sleeves are rolled up, her collar is unbuttoned, and her eyes flutter with exhaustion. She has her back to the door so that no one will enter, and she sits because she would not stand any longer. And if the ten thousand Mongols of Genghis Khan were to roll down the hallway, she'd bar the door even so.

"Marchande!" This rouses, this is the call that brings the blood to boiling. Marchande unfolds, springing to her feet, pushing the door open with the flat of her palm. And inside there is an angel. It glows like fire and the susurrus of its wings is the howling desert wind. Before it they are simply, well, scraps and tatters, whether they dress in a suit or in rags.

It is the Justice of the Lord, and Marchande does not wish to stand before it. But for a child's sake, she must. For just one, she would.

She straightens, fixes her shoulders, steels her gaze. She takes her fear and turns it into coal to make the heart burst into flame. She rests one hand, long-furred and long-nailed, on Charlotte's shoulder.

"We demand a weapon for an angel disarmed, who would enact justice on the robber in the night, the despoiler of the home and the ravisher of innocents. The sword: we demand that it be surrendered to our care, not to be drawn until this angel we serve holds it in her hands. And I? I speak by the right of service rendered to the just and the true; my companion by the right of diligent service to the same. We speak by the right of children's tongues, who shall not be silenced by the sinful and the unrighteous." She's using her pastor voice, emphasis flaming behind every other word, armored in conviction and fervor. This, this is the way you talk to angels.