Quoted By:
>Enter your magical realm...?
Come on, Lottie. Easy lie. "We- we are the volunteers," you say. "Yes. Ahem. That's us. So actually if you could escort us <span class="mu-i">towards</span> the dastardly—"
"Ma'am, I didn't see you at training. Or you, sir. So—"
You glance helplessly at Gil, who's blank-faced. "Um, we were... sick?"
"Ma'am—"
"Yes! Horribly sick. Ailing. On <span class="mu-i">death's door,</span> practically. We were feverish, and- and vomiting, and if we had attended training when it happened we would've purged ourselves everywhere, on everybody, on you probably, and—"
"Ma'am," the man says placidly, "you are not a volunteer. Can I see ID?"
"ID?" you say. <span class="mu-i">ID?</span> He can't expect you to show him ID! It's an emergency! Shouldn't he want brave volunteers, regardless of legitimacy? It's his fault if the whole place burns to the ground, his idiot fault <span class="mu-i">alone,</span> and— you would've said all this, might've even coaxed Gil into "producing" an ID, if you hadn't thought instead: <span class="mu-r">h</span>ow dare he?
How <span class="mu-i">dare</span> he? How dare this fat <span class="mu-i">mustache</span> of a man, this worm, this eyelash, this not-even-a-man— how dare this specter, this whisper, this quivering fungoid tumor stand up to <span class="mu-i">you?!</span> You, Charlotte Fawkins: regal, god-blooded, stinking of destiny? You, who slew your own father and reveled in it? Does he not see your hands stained brazen? You would laugh in his face if you had the breath for it, but the snake is tied too tightly. Instead you grimace in rigor mortis and cock your head. You could kill him. You could take Wyrmtooth take Wyrmbite take the tortoiseshell-handled knife (it is always tortoiseshell-handled) and you could rend him open and take the tangled Law out of him, but what would be the purpose? It is not a thing of its own. [Also, you interject a little desperately, also murdering the guy sort of creates further—]
No, it is far better to make your dominance <span class="mu-s">known.</span> And more than that: respected. Adhered to. You will take this thing and mold it like clay; you will be Queen to it, and you will be neither loved nor feared but obeyed, and it will make obeisance to you.
And so you strode forward, and so you would have done precisely that, were you not caught by the forearm. The beetles— the retainer— th [<span class="mu-i">Gil!</span>] the Gil is holding you pincerlike, eyes bright and intent. His hand is shot through with light. [You think thank God, thank God, thank] you snarl and emanate something like 'remove yourself, insect' and tear him off you with force. He goes stumbling and sparking and you stalk the remaining couple feet to the petrified mustached man.
His face squelches under the force of your grip, and his knees weaken into a kneel. Good. You say nothing to him: you have nothing to say to each other. All you do is take him (what paltry little there is), smooth him out, and form him into the shape of a spiral.
>[-1 SV: 1/?]
When you are done he is melting more than he used to. "Bow," you say.
He bows until his chin scrapes the grass.
