hemlock leaves (pretty poison)

what is up my fine feathered friends. i spend a lot of time being the first person to worry that i'm being too self-aggrandizing, but the yuri index numbers being drawn up in absence of my fics is a little funny. not even accurate. dukeofdumbass is missing from their calculations. and it's literally true. i haven't done any calculations of my own (you would think i would just have a stats page by now. next project) so instead i'm just going to do this. for fun and flavor

"You surprise me, Tyrea."

Tyrea has neither especially adored nor particularly despised the process of learning to implement the element of surprise. She has always been fastidious, if tucked-under in her roughness around the edges, and she has not allowed advantages to be observed in her discredit.

But for Melia to be surprised in this way, to be reproachful...that is another matter.

The blush in her cheeks is high, faint. Melia's visage is much the rounder than it had been in years past, as Tyrea had watched her come of age from the shadows.

"My gift to you, Empress."

Sena's always been by her side. Closer than anyone - even Miyabi, though she'd tried (so clumsily, the both of them) not to show it. Sena had been, it seems, unable to admit that it would always be Mio who'd be the protector, the sanctuary, the glibly-glowing eternal ring.

And now, with the twain worlds fading...

Well, Sena's still here. Just as she'd always wanted. The tears in her eyes are wistful, rueful, buoyed by the force of her never-ending smile. She grabs Mio's hand because, well, isn't that their constant?

Mio finds it easy to admit...she'd wanted this, too.

Queen of Wands. Queen of Swords. Queen of Cups. Queen of Pentacles.

Nia had picked up tarot as a hobby that she thought might complement Melia's interest in astrology begrudgingly (somewhat?) grubbed from Sharla, so-she-said. She fans out the cards with her kitty-claws showing, fang aflash as she waits for Melia to make comment.

"Am I not the wand, and you the sword?"

And what of cups and pentacles? They all sit on thrones, considering...

"That's not how it works, Mel!" Nia complains. "Especially since we're the other way 'round!"

Yes, dear. As you like it. Any way at all.

"Like this, Nia," Mòrag says, with infinite patience, demonstrating the underhand stroke then resheathing the blade.

S'not that Nia's just watching her do it, mesmerized, that she might memorize each neatest nuance. No, she's not so coy, so sly.

How ever could she master such balance as that? So simple. Overfall, and down. Nia'd need two strikes, least, to get the same effect on whatever upstarting soldier-or-three had set sights on her and her poor chromakid Common - no, she'd not even imagine taking Aegaeon, Perceval, or Newt from Mòrag; neither Theory from Zeke.

"Err...once more, Mòrag? If you could?"

Our bond as deep as thieves...

Our support everlasting, forged in the fire as blue as bright stars which have echoed their proclamations upon the Jewel and the Flamebringer that guides her out.

Without a word. Without a flutter. Without a murmur, swept to the side.

"I often wonder to myself what is the difference, Brighid, between us and any others. Is it the scorn, do you think?"

"Surely not, Lady Mòrag," Brighid replies disdainfully. "Indeed, it is the esteem that binds us."

Mine for you. Yours for me. The empire's, and beyond that, the world and peers, bowing head.

Pyra's a pretty self-contained person, all bottled up in reds-and-greens like she forgot that's how you trim a Christmas tree. Nothing she hides is for hiding's sake; nothing she wonders is so illicitly bidden.

Not that Nia would have liked to've known that that was what she'd been gunning for, all this time, but, well, Pyra's so trustworthy.

She's not the type to exude. Never the type to show off, shine on. And yet, she does. Warmth. Kindness. Gratitude. Pluck. All so bright you could taste it.

Nia's glad to taste it, and watch Pyra tracing firelights in the sky.

Imagine Nia and Mythra, Torna days, going off on each other. Imagine chip-on-her-shoulder Aegiskind and forever-a-secret Flesh-Eater biting for strays in Aletta, in Auresco, in Dannagh Desert where the wind's not got time for your petty shenanigans, and you'll fall in a sinkhole if you're not looking right.

It's Mythra who's imagining, and Nia who doesn't know.

Maybe the grip-grace of water or the opportunity of a sparring partner she could bend down and strafe at would have been something.

It would have been beautiful, if nothing else. Imagine Nia, militia-side, tossing Mythra her weapon...

Still waiting for it today!

"She loves me...she loves me not. She loves me not...she loves me."

Each Propeller Poppy petal goes whirling away off the end of the Holy Lid like it's been imbued with the unholy power of Colony 11's mass behavioral issues. Were Eunie standing in range of the spray, she'd probably not be too chuffed, but as it is, she's approached Ashera from behind, all the better to watch the mad'un while away her days with silly snuff like this.

"You could just ask, you know."

Ashera doesn't turn. "Of course, little bird, but where's the fun in that?"

Melia always seems to find herself peering around a corner at Fiora; always subtle, always shy, too daunted by the very verve of the Homs girl to ever dare think about emulating it - becoming a little something of she whom she loves so much.

When Fiora's there to see, that is. When she's not, and Melia's solely responsible for bringing the full brunt of Endless Sea warrior valkyries to bear in Aionios, well, then she'll mix it up, won't she?

One... Two... Starlight Kick!

Not quite how it used to sound, but her cloth-covered bottom's through being brushed off, now.

If everything's a ritual, then nothing is, but if that's so, then how is it that every little moment she shares with Lady Mòrag still manages to be as mystifying and awe-inspiring as its first and as the last, and then again, then some?

They'd very nearly dress each other, if they didn't wear the same exact outfits every day. Even so, Brighid is no stranger to tying the bootlaces that cross up the backs of the Special Inquistor's calves, hidden to all but the Blade who has the privilege to caress beneath her cape.

What a pair, well fit.