imeeji; registry

[forgottenmercy]

memories POSITIVE NEUTRAL NEGATIVE POSITIVE 3/## MEMORIES REGAINED The tiniest shrine maiden WRITE-UP Baby's First Calibration WRITE-UP The best wedding gift WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] NEUTRAL 3/## MEMORIES REGAINED two Appearance 5 deathknights walk into a bar WRITE-UP What does a 12-year old shrine maiden do when not working? WRITE-UP sick shrine maidens and out of season fruit WRITE-UP meeting, interrupted WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] NEGATIVE 8/## MEMORIES REGAINED A bad ending to a bad sugar daddy WRITE-UP How (not) to meet your husband WRITE-UP Wedding night WRITE-UP First Age: She Who Lives burns the world WRITE-UP First murder/first mercy-kill WRITE-UP Jealousy and averted murder WRITE-UP The most coincidental rescue that he really didn't want WRITE-UP Can witnessing a sufficiently transcendent performance kill the viewer? News at 11. WRITE-UP MEMORY DESCRIPTION WRITE-UP MISSING MEMORY [ RETURN TO TOP ] 13/## TOTAL MEMORIES REGAINED

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Memory #15

[forgottenmercy]

The teahouse that Sorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain invites you to take tea with her is an extremely nice one. You have practice in gauging nice teahouses, and this is the best of the best to be found in this city. The two of you blend right in: her, practically dressed in nice dark traveling clothing and from her bearing obviously a high-status military woman, and you, for all appearances, an expensive courtesan worth a king’s ransom.

However, while others might simply see an assignation, the reality of what is going on is far different. She is the third deathknight who has approached you on behalf of their master in two months: two for the Mask of Winters, who apparently does not want to take disinterest as an answer, and now Rain on behalf of the Walker in Darkness.

(You might as well hear what she has to say. Even though you already know your answer.)

"I appreciate your willingness to meet with me," she says. "We may not have come to it the same way, but—that they chose you directly, without the hand of any of the Deathlords, speaks to a great potential. That, and your work speaks for itself."

You demurely lower your eyes. “I was not aware that my...activities had come to the notice of one such as your master.”

"Ah, well…" She seems momentarily unsure. "My ears are his ears, and I appreciate… the will to alleviate suffering and seek justice, in a colleague. It's in short supply, in this and every age. I just wish to see that gift put to even greater use."

So she was the one who had heard of what you were doing - and brought the tale to her master. A woman interested in small-scale acts of what could be justice, inquisitive enough to listen to rumors and tales, and clever enough to put all the pieces together, to trace them back to you.

“Are those qualities that would benefit your master?” you inquire, delicately. You very much doubt it: the Walker in Darkness is not known for either mercy or justice. You expect that this effort to sway you to join her master would suit Rain’s own agenda, first and foremost, rather than that of the Walker in Darkness.

She looks mildly uncomfortable. "What best serves the will of the Neverborn and their ends benefits my master," she says, in what's a clear confirmation of your guess, but then goes on: "I'm no diplomat, so I'll be frank: we're lacking someone of both your finesse and restraint. If I've judged you correctly, you don't do your work for material reward, but I'd make sure you have what you need and more, and support, besides. No worrying about safety on the road, or places to stay. Backup, should you need it."

For anyone else, this offer would have been tempting: material support, never having to be in want again, never having to work alone. Assured safety while traveling, especially important on the often-dangerous roads of the Hundred Kingdoms. You know too well the dangers, especially because you lure them right to you, weaponize vulnerability and victimhood and put yourself at risk to be the most attractive bait. For anyone else, this offer would have been tempting, but you are not ‘anyone’. Your sense of justice and mercy, as well as your priorities, do not align well with most deathknights, and you will not truly submit yourself to another master. Even Their constant voices in your head, a haunting, demanding chorus whether you are awake or asleep, go ignored, and if you please them, it is by coincidence.

(Rain serves the wrong master: but how long will it be before she realizes it?)

You have no intention of taking her offer, and had no intention of taking it even before you came to this meeting. You also do not intend on directly refusing, if you can avoid it: there is power, of a sort, in being the one courted, in your value as being unattached, serving no one, and sought for that reason, but there is also no sense in rousing the attention (or ire) of a Deathlord by directly refusing their emissary. Especially as they will not take ‘no’ as an answer.

Instead, you gracefully refill Rain’s tea, and consider how to respond. However, before you can say anything, the sounds of a commotion outside interrupts you: an argument, between...two men? A man and a youth?

Rain's halfway through protesting that you don't need to refill her tea when she turns abruptly toward the commotion, her expression suddenly dark and apprehensive. "I should have just left him at the encampment," she mutters, under her breath, and moves to get up from the table. "I'll return shortly, it's just—"

Barely a heartbeat later is the unmistakable sound of someone being stabbed. She swears, and launches herself toward the door, throwing it open with one shoulder. You follow after her, gracefully, moving as quickly as can be expected in the clothing you are wearing, your parasol resting against your shoulder and close at hand.

Outside, a lanky, lean man with thin, birdlike features and red streaks running through his black hair lets a further streak of red drip from the blade of his unsheathed knife; beneath him on the ground is, presumably, his former opponent in that argument. Rain looks up at him, looks down at the body, gives a long-suffering sigh, and in one smooth movement grabs him by the collar.

"What did I tell you," she says, flatly.

"You should have heard what he said to me!"

"You should have heard of subtlety. Head back to camp, no detours, or I'll commend you for your service as a bodyguard and say you should be assigned three more months of that work. I suppose—I'll settle the bill, and the funeral expenses, besides." This does not sound like the first time they have had such a conversation. He makes a movement as if to argue, but she already has her hands in a fighting stance—and it's not a fight he's expecting to win. Grumbling, he turns, and leaves.

You kneel down by the boy who Rain’s colleague had stabbed and gently close his eyes, singing him to his rest. A youth, who looks barely older than you. Though your eyes are demurely lowered, you mark the man’s face, what he looks like: someday, there will be a reckoning. Someday. Not here and now.

"I'm—very sorry about all this," says Rain, with both a note of exasperation and one of genuine distress; she looks down at the body again, her lower lip quivering as if she's about to cry, actually. "As you can see, it's hard to get good help, but I imagine I haven't made the best impression."

She glances sideways at you. "That said, if you'd find it agreeable, perhaps tea some other time. No expectations."

You incline your head gracefully in acknowledgment, and hope that she will have her realization soon. For her sake. “Perhaps some other time.” you say, gently, soothingly, and no more than that.




Notes:
- white-haired Persephone this time.
- "the Sorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain" is very unmistakably Shrike.
- He's dressed in blue but a different shade of blue than the sapphire blue he wore as a concubine. a very elaborate kimono, the elaborate clothing of a courtesan, a super high-ranking and expensive one. It's worn right over left, in the fashion of the dead.
- by modern standards, the "city" that they're in is small. Nowhere near the size of a modern city.