Polyphonic Prairie

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

Closed to whichever character Duffy decides to join with :P
“I don’t want to do it,” Polly said. “I don’t wanna do another fight.” She sat on her small bed in her lodgings in the Citadel with her arms crossed. The one little window let in barely enough sunlight to illuminate the whole room. She was sick of this place, this fortress, this whole thing. Passer, the God of Sparrows, was perched across from her, and he looked angry.

“But you have to,” he chirped furiously. “You can’t just give up on me like that! Polly, you even won your last battle! Clearly you’re improving, and that’s just what we came here to do.”

Polly shrugged. “I won, but that wolf monster guy was scary, okay? I don’t want to have to do something like that again.”

“That was a fluke. You could even ask the monks to make sure next time you fight a human, alright? Just one more?”

“I guess,” Polly said. She was amazed with herself. A few weeks ago she would never have even considered arguing with her god, but things were different now. The time she’d spent in the Citadel had made her more experienced and independent, and less naïve and trusting. “But if I lose this battle, I’m not gonna do even one more, okay?”

Passer nodded. “Fair enough. But you still have to try your hardest!” Polly nodded.

“Are you done talking to your little bird?” the monk asked. He’d been standing in the doorway waiting for her decision for ten minutes now. A mixture of frustration and amusement played across his facial features and he tapped his foot.

“Yep, sure am.” Polly said. She strapped on her armor—breastplate, gauntlets and helmet—and picked up her spear. Now she was ready to battle. “Thanks to y’all for waiting so patient-like.”

The monk lead her down the Citadel corridors towards the location of her next battle. As they walked, they passed other warriors, each more intimidating looking than the last. Most of them gave Polly odd or condescending looks. She knew that she was small and not particularly tough looking, even while wearing her armor. Maybe the armor was part of the problem though…it was slightly too big for her, and made her look a little bit like a kid playing dress up.

Well, whatever! Polly ignored them. She had defeated the terrifying wolf monster in the jungle in her last match—and if she could do that, she could probably do anything.

The door the monk brought her to was a large stone arch with runes engraved all over it. Weirdly enough, Polly thought she could hear music coming from the other side, but maybe that was just her imagination.

“Here it is,” the monk said, gesturing to the stone doorway. “Go ahead in, and good luck, Miss Robinson.”

“Thank you kindly,” Polly said, and she walked into the portal.

When she emerged, she was in the middle of a completely flat plain, extending forever in all directions with no interruption. Not even a single tree as far as the eye could see. Overhead, the sky was paper-white and cloudless, and the sun seemed impossibly large and hot. She was in a desert of sorts.

Beneath her feet wasn’t sand, however, but stone. The ground was divided into a grid of squares, each maybe two feet wide, and each with a different rune or symbol engraved upon them. Polly hesitantly extended a foot and touched one of the squares, well aware of the traps or tricks the monks might have in store.

When she touched the square, the symbol on it began to glow purple, and it made a chiming sound like the clearest of bells. Polly giggled. Pretty neat, actually. This place sure was better than the dark and scary forest her last fight was in.

She touched another tile, and it began to glow green, and made a sound like a harp being plucked. Its sound merged with the fading sound of the bell and they made a little melody. Pleased, Polly began to dance about on the tiles, each glowing a different color and making a different sound. Each one faded about a minute after being touched, but nonetheless she soon had a small orchestra going. She danced and laughed with simple joy and for the moment forgot her reason for being here at all.

Then, she remembered. She stood in the middle of a battle arena. Soon her opponent would arrive, and then she’d have to fight. And she would give it her all, not because she had some great desire to win, or because Passer wanted her too—but because, oddly enough, she’d developed some pride about her skill and wasn’t about to lose that.

Polly readied her spear and prepared herself for whatever dangers might be thrown at her now.

[Ruby]

What entered the arena was not what one might call 'dangerous.' Ravishing in red, cocksure of herself, and an excellent dancer perhaps, but you did not decide to be those things. You were born that way and Ruby sullenly waltzed into the chamber every bit sure of herself and ready for the trials before her as if she was destined to succeed. In recent times she had not considered, nor allowed herself to consider the possibility of failure. It was not a choice she could face, unlike the difficult line trodden between heels and comfortable shoes.

The arid heat struck her powdered face almost instantly. She regretted wearing her cologne as it intensified and clung to her nostrils like a dog on heat to a badly timed extension of the leg. There was not long now until her wedding, when she would finally be free of the false pretences of the single woman's providence so she was merely keeping up appearances. She had long forgotten who she was doing it for. Did the murderers, thieves, warriors and knights of Corone truly care if she appeared without her make-up or not?

She rolled her eyes in little circles at her self-doubt and took in her surroundings. It was not the typical Citadel affair, devoid as it was of any feeling or ambiance or...she tilted her head and listened. Music? The wide urban sprawl was made of stone and runes were wrought in deep and vibrant magic but somehow it sung, and she was not impressed at having her thunder stolen away. With a sigh, she clocked her dancing opponent and made her way over the arena. The sporadic and somewhat comic tiles played out a haphazard arrangement of tinkering notes and rolling tom-toms as she approached.

"Was this your idea, little girl?" She stopped a hundred feet or so away from Polly. She was taken aback by her youth, and somewhat jealous, although she would never show it without a quick and painful death to follow it up. "This is a place to hurt, maim, kill. If you wanted to rattle out Herbert's Opus 32 or learn to do the foxtrot...as appropriate a person as I may be to teach you, I would recommend an Okiya in Akashima." She winked and rested her hands on her hips just above the belt. Behind her smouldering eyes and the brazen flourishes of colour on the feathers in her hair, there was a secret and raging urge to sing the girl to an early grave.

"If I am mistaken and you wish to fight me, then spare me the details and the courageous acts of chivalry and get it over with?" She clicked her fingers left and right, stomped her foot, and entered a stance that was more fandango than midnight tango. She was getting old, and haggard, and she positively hated being upstaged by the new generation; and darn, she cursed to herself, she looks good in metal.

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

All bunnying in this thread is approved o'course :3
It was only a few minutes into the match and Polly was hot—very uncomfortably hot. The desert sun beat down with murderous intensity. Beads of sweat trickled all over her body and her armor felt like a metal pot in which she could cook alive. She felt as though she was being smothered by a blanket.

Her opponent was a gorgeous woman who appeared to be only a year or two older than Polly—although something about her demeanor suggested someone much more experienced. Was she perhaps a witch? She didn’t seem dressed like one—Polly thought that witches wore pointy hats, not big feathers in their hair.

The scarlet-clad woman’s tone of voice was condescending, and Polly found herself slightly irritated by it. At the same time, though, she was more than a little bit smitten with her elegant opponent. How could she fight and harm someone like this? Her last opponent had been a monster; she had no need to feel guilt about fighting him. This woman was no monster.

Polly gave an awkward half-smile. “I didn’t pick the arena, I s’pose the monks did that. My name’s Polly Robinson, by the way.” She gave a slight bow and blushed profusely. “It’s a pleasure to meetcha.”

Her opponent nodded. “And mine is Ruby la Roux.”

Ruby, huh, Polly thought. It was a fancy name, a rich name, not plain and boring like Polly. She felt embarrassed.

Polly walked towards her opponent, and each step on the tiled ground brought colored lights and a brand new instrument to the growing orchestra. Polly looked over her shoulder and saw a trail of light and sound behind her. She left behind music like slugs leave behind slime.

As she walked, she made a resolution in her mind. If she was to be a real adventurer, she had to give her all to battles, even if she didn’t really want to. As beautiful as this woman was, Polly wasn’t about to let her win just for the sake of that. No, she’d at least make the little sparrow god waiting for her back in the Citadel proud of her.

Abruptly she changed her speed from a walk to a run to a charge, thrusting at her opponent with her spear. Oddly, as she charged the music from beneath her feet seemed to get more discordant and angry, matching the mood of the person creating it.

Drums and cymbals and crashing glass followed Polly’s feet.

[Ruby]

Ruby plucked at the drum beat that flowed towards her behind the ferocity and intent of the girl's spear tip and formed a song in her mind. Once, she would have cursed her weakness and disability, her unfavoured, unarmed and unprepared state of mind that was a crippling creation of her own doing. With every step, she felt the pounding crescendo of The Aria rock in her mind, and as the spear tip rushed forwards a counter note cracked against it.

I said no hurt shall come to pass,
No cross of arms shall falter free,
No fear in my mind shall ever break,
The chains of pain you've sought to see!

Tendrils of sound, unseen and unheard until it was too late crashed into the spear tip. Ruby stepped to one side as quick as she might, her neck and spine twisting and craning out of the deadly weapon's reach. Whilst she had conjured the Rampant Requiem quickly and passionately from the ambiance of the arena, it had done nothing but act as a screen, a vibrant illusion that the girl trusted aside with a stoic determination Ruby had abandoned long ago. She needed to try harder.

She stumbled back and flailed her arms, her teeth gritted together and sucking air like lemons. "Grah!" She bellowed in a most unlady like fashion and then scuttled back. The hem of her dress bobbed up and down on the whim of it's under-wire, and gave the musical footsteps an oceanic buoyancy, and the woman beneath it the appearance of a regal jellyfish.

"You little brat!" Ruby hissed, her hands bent into claws with unfettered threats behind them as her eyes began to burn with an inner light, ominous and jade. Polly turned on a heel and countered her threat with the promise of another good and well aimed run. "If that's the way the cookie is gonna crumble," she threw away the pretence of nobility and let the street slum Ruby of the Scara Brae night life burst into existence, "then so be it!"

As she started to sing again, plucking the echoes of her song together into a matted mess of reverberating melodies. She jumped and stomped a rhythm on the tile beneath her boots. The heavy, tinny drum beat was a convenient ensemble to her spell-singing, but it gave her more passion and meaning and drive - with each jolt of her foot she felt alive, her somewhat lazy thighs wobbling in anticipation and nervous vibration.

"I said hey - hey -hey little girl,
Look what your pappa done!
He gone got his sword, ran to the horde,
And now his life is done!

Down to the guard he went a runnin,
Chopping and screamin and low he be cuttin'
Raging and rioting caus' his daughter's a hoe,
Her bed mate tonight, only the thayne be know!"

The folk tale, sung by the sprightly and vibrant night harlots of the Numarr slums when the cherry scented vodka was flowing deep into the moonlight hours served to accrue a rage in Ruby's voice. She brought to bear a second verse of the Requiem and channelled it forwards into a disgruntled and energetic blast. It landed a few feet in front of her, and shattered the stone tile that had once been an oboe. The sound of the instrument rang out in a warbled death call, and then the invisible force bounced on, straight at Polly in a rolling spirit of scattering rock and unseen pain.

Sweat formed on Ruby's brow and her head was eschew and smouldering with actual temperament, but she felt suddenly and inexplicably matriarchal, as if she regretted her outburst. As the blast rolled forwards, cracking stone and ether, she gasped and mouthed a 'No!'

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

The magical force of Ruby’s song smashed into Polly like a charging bull, punching her in the gut and sending her flying into the ground. She crashed into a pink tile that played the triangle, which cracked from the force of the impact. It started playing very off key in a disturbing and discordant way. Her body hurt everywhere.

Polly felt darkness crowd around her vision, and almost thought she was going to black out. Part of this was the heat, certainly, but mostly it was the sheer concussive force of her opponent’s spell. So Ruby la Roux is a witch, Polly thought. Just not any sort she’d seen before. It seemed that the woman cast her spells by singing, of all things. It seemed bizarre, but then again, those were the sorts of people you met in the Citadel.

Never before had Polly fought a magician, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do. On the other hand, she no longer felt guilty about giving this battle her all. Ruby had no qualms about unleashing the full might of her magic on Polly (apparently) so Polly wouldn’t have to feel guilty about fighting back.

She forced herself up, despite her aching body, and stepped forward onto a tile engraved with three lines. It turned bright red and let out a confident chord that seemed to urge her forward.

With a shout, she once again charged at Ruby, spear pointing forward. Instead of a drumbeat, this time a chorus of stringed instruments followed her, each with a powerful edge that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Not once did Polly think that charging again might be a bad idea. While ballads could have been sung of the girl’s bravery, her intelligence deserved barely a limerick. Before she even got close to the witch in scarlet, Ruby began to sing once more, this time in a taunting sort of voice.

"Sweet Polly Robinson, gone off to war!
Victory she’d achieve, on her bastard father’s grave she swore,
though the violence she did abhor!
Charged her enemy with a roar,
too bad she’s just a no good whore!"

The singing synchronized with the melodies of the instruments, and another invisible blast struck Polly right on her chest and pushed her to the ground once more. This time her breastplate protected her some, but her charge was still interrupted. Polly groaned. She felt as though she might have a concussion now.

She pulled herself to her feet, this time with less confidence and more frustration. She couldn’t even get close enough to Ruby to make a scratch!

Instead of charging again, she stood in a defensive stance. Her feet set apart powerfully and her spear ready to block any attack, it wouldn’t be easy to knock her down this time. “Fine!” Polly said angrily. “How about you come and get me?”

[Ruby]

Ruby felt the strain of fatigue cut into her throat and dredge the air from her lungs by force. It was a sign any singer knew all too well, and one they learned to temper with relief and the gentle easing of wit through generic, casual speech. She smiled politely, flicked the feathers from her eyes and nodded to her opponent with a simplistic glee tinting her eyes with a light that suggested malice and wonderment.

"Come and get you with what, exactly?" It occurred to Ruby that she was letting the girl's youth cloud her vision and perception. Her armour was deft, her spear sharp, but her wits, her experience of the world was obviously as blunt and lacking as her own bladed repertoire. Her menagerie of songs would swiftly run out of steam, so she had to think of something, and think of it fast. Perhaps she could spuriously enamour the young girl, show her the true, if depraved, meaning of living.

"You might forgive the implications of my question, but it is rather clear I have no steel nor shield to bolster my defence against that pretty little stick of yours. I have my song, my flames, my inner fire, nothing more." She approached Polly very slowly, little dainty steps of courtly romance over the defiant strides she would usually employ to deal a final discordant blow. The sound of her movement changed from the rattle of military drums to a delicate harpsichord, and then to a shifting and rolling classical sprawl that shifted between violin and flute.

"When you see a little more of the world, you might learn a thing or two about how things work," she adjusted her bosom and smoothed down the front of her dress as if knocking food from a pinafore, and cleared her throat once more. "You will learn how to deal and adjust to all circumstance, whilst never stepping out of line from your...stature, your status, your right." She doubted Polly would understand nobility, she still did not, after two decades living her little lie drenched in gin.

"But gone are the days of innocence,
Gone the days of glee,
Gone the days of fiery dreams.
Gone are the days of being free!"

The lullaby was an old Scara Braen cantor that was whispered still to children in dark cots and seedy residential apartments on the waterfront. It had been one of the few relics of her childhood she had been able to recall in her long years of searching.

"When eyes falter, when eyes fail,
When eyes wander, when hate prevails,
All we've left is a star filled sky,
All we've left is a trying time.

Look to the stars child,
Look to the seas,
Look to the endless infinity.

Look to the depths child,
Look to the heart,
Look to the world that falls apart."

All around Ruby, lights flickered into being. Dancing fae spirits and glowing, almost spiralling tangents of flame and illumination cast a strange and sickly glow over her usually crimson tinted skin. She held out her hands to her sides and cupped her palms upwards, and let the first born of her illusion nestle their false warmth into her digits.

A long line of silver sparks dropped from nowhere and encircled Polly's spear tip, and crawled along it slowly and unrelentingly. Polly's innocence pulled her gaze from Ruby's breasts to watch it spiral down the wood and nibble her fingertips with a kind, animalism glee. Attentive and curious and without threat, a perfect companion to the musical, polyphonic melee that was unfolding in Radasanth fair.

Ruby let her voice trail away and burst into a run that came from years of living in the squalor and busy pace of her homeland. She had no other weapon besides her hand, but in the right mood, in the right moment, what a slap she could deliver with her gloved left palm. Ripe with rings as big as hers she did not need anything else. "Stupid girl!" She roared as she approached Polly.

She felt sorry for her, but would be bound by her guilt no more. She had learnt the hard way, in the school of hard knocks and the master's class of sleazy living - Polly would have to face up to her life, her misfortune, and her new found piety in her servitude to her spear sooner, rather than later. She would not survive otherwise, and in Ruby's twisted, stubborn world, survival was all that mattered.

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

Polly had been thoroughly enchanted by Ruby’s lullaby, her beauty and lights, but the feeling of the slap across her face pulled her right back to reality. She felt as though she’d been asleep and someone had kicked her into a bucket of ice cold water. The physical pain the slap caused her was significant—laden as Ruby’s hand was with fat rings—but the emotional shock after the wonderful bewitchment was much worse. Ruby had perhaps made a mistake in enamoring Polly with her love song. There’s no anger nearly as furious as unrequited love’s, after all.

She gasped, shocked for a moment at the slap, and then gritted her teeth. Ruby stood still, looking expectant.

“You witch,” Polly spat. Rarely did she ever get angry, but now she was furious. She spat onto the ground in an un-ladlylike fashion and turned to retaliate against the slap with incredible speed. The butt of her spear smacked Ruby right in the solar plexus, and the spellsinger doubled over in pain. “You utter witch!” Polly repeated. It was the worst insult she could think of—she hadn’t grown up with parents who cursed.

“How dare you!” Polly said. She looked into Ruby’s face, but in place of the beauty she’d seen before she saw a monster. The desert heat combined with exertion had caused the singer to sweat, and her makeup was now smeared all across her face in a hideous fashion. Polly, on the other hand, wore no makeup—she wasn’t vain enough for anything like that.

She stepped forward onto another tile and this one turned blood red and sung a trumpet’s blast. Polly slashed again with her spear—this time with the business end—but Ruby managed to dodge it for the most part. Her left shoulder got cut a little bit, though, and soon blood was mixing with the scarlet red of her fabric.

Polly was angry like she’d never been angry before, and she wasn’t even quite sure why. She felt as though she’d been deceived. Ruby had tricked her into thinking she was her friend. The indignity! Every step Polly took brought a chorus of brass instruments, horns and trumpets making their furious clarion calls.

“I don’t know many fancy songs like that,” Polly said casually, “But my mommy did teach me how to think of a pretty good limerick. And I think I’ve got one now!”

“I once met this girl named la Roux,
Whose songs had the loveliest hue!
But Polly did see,
She turned out to be,
‘naught but a fat ugly SHREW!”

And with the last word, Polly jabbed her spear with all her might right at Ruby’s stomach.

[Ruby]

Ruby had little time to respond to the witticism, nor to look shocked or surprised at the clarion call of her equal. With no real skill in avoidance nor weapon to knock the spear aside, she had little choice but to brace for the impact and sort of, flopped backwards foolishly as the iron tip pierced her front.

She did not scream, cry or falter. The only sound that left Ruby was a small rush of air as she was winded against a cerulean panel. It sounded a hollow horn as her head cracked against the rock and then went silent. Never one to pass up a moment for dramatic flair, Ruby ran her fingers over the wound and examined them with archaic groaning and twitching, as if she were on death's door.

"I-I, underestimated...you." She spluttered with false indignation, having realised that the shock had wounded her more than the physicality of the girl's weapon. She had a pretty little thread hole in the muscle wall of her stomach, which would no doubt cause her pain and discomfort for the remainder of the confrontation, but it was not fatal. It mirrored the girl before her, a little prick of annoyance on the skin and mind.

"Fear not, though," she rolled onto her side with a grimace, and rose to a horn solo that drifted out across the prairie with echoing madness. "I will not fall for the surprise of hearing another attempt a limerick - your mother, rest her soul, should have taught you a little harder!" She tried to smile, but came across as a depraved harlequin with her make-up smudged and spiralling beneath the liquid elasticity of her sweat. She had never been one, in recent months to fall for the trappings of vanity, and she simply rubbed it all off with her dress's hem.

With cold and calculated eyes she gave Polly the once over, tightened her sash around her waist to stem the oozing blood that threatened to end the confrontation there and then and rested her hands on her hips; she was satisfied that she had recovered herself from her vanity, and satisfied beneath the warm and tingling weight of the elaborate necklace around her bosom as it's magic protected her mind.

"Do you do anything else, asides poke people? I'm afraid I'm a bit of a one trick pony myself," she opened her mouth to sing another verse. Fire began to burn in her eyes and her hair, if only fleetingly, seemed to flutter with real flames, scintillating along their smouldering roots like bushfire.

"I am a woman of pride and of sin,
You are but a girl, where do I begin?
So much to learn, so much more to give,
A life left to hate through, a life left to live.

Fall into shadow, coldness and snow,
Fall into hatred of no-one that knows,
Fall into fire and scornful embrace,
Welcome, Polly, to the human race!"

Spiralling fires rolled around Ruby's arms and she drew the spell song magic up her limbs to surround her torso, to kindle her heart. The Paean of Phoenix Fire renewed her energy almost instantly. The conflagration burnt as bright as a star and sautéed her wound and cleansed her clammy body of it's sickness, it's débutante's nightmare, it's war and unladylike toil.

"Your spirit," she muttered between verses, standing on her tiptoes as if suspended by invisible string, "don't ever forget it, I left it behind, and this is what I turned into!"

"The fire inside burns brightest,
When coals descend like rain,
Each one a memory left behind.
To hurt you once again!"

"Do you understand? Never stop being you!" As annoying as she was, Ruby felt an endearing fondness of the little foul-mouthed bitch. It was perhaps more jealousy than likeness, but both emotions were so easily confused in a woman's mind, it was hard to tell. She clenched her teeth and screamed the chorus once more.

The pillar of flame shot high into the sky and Ruby dissipated for a moment. As the flames retreated, she re-emerged into the world entirely naked, except for the searing white metal necklace about her neck and the comforting sight of her various rings, to stubborn to fall beneath the power of The Aria about her fingers. She landed on the floor and the rock steamed beneath her. Her clothes fluttered in a torrent of ash to the floor.

The flickering fiery aura died quickly, leaving Ruby without clothes, but wreathed in a cloak of molten fire that covered her in illusory heat and danger from head to tip. Her hair was all gone, replaced with a great tuft of red feathers set askew by the up-draft and the burning oxygen; her eyes were bright red and her skin glowed with perfection. She had left herself behind long ago and in the woman's place, the Phoenix stared at the little girl with a serene grace. The spear wound was blanched, but still stung, and she knew another would come soon.

"I've a burning desire to make you pay for your little comment, all the same - no womanly code will stop me from that; show me I'm wrong about you, Polly!" She gestured for the girl to approach, hoping she was too inexperienced to tell the difference between searing flame and illusory light.

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

Before Polly’s eyes, Ruby la Roux transformed from a human seeming woman into some sort of fiery god. Polly gazed in wonder and awe at this metamorphosis, the flame and light and sheer power that came from the woman’s song and magic. It was impressive indeed, and Polly was more than a little intimidated. She took one hesitant step forward, and the tile turned mauve and gave one weak, faltering note. For really the first time in this battle, she was afraid.

There was something in the other woman’s eyes that made her wonder, though. Despite the bravado in the sorceress’s voice, she looked uncertain. Scared, even. Why would she be scared if she had this new, powerful fire armor protecting her? It didn’t make sense.

It’s because it’s not real! came the voice of Passer the Sparrow God inside her head. Was he watching the match? Of course I’m watching the match! Now listen, that fire surrounding her, it’s just an illusion, she’s trying to trick you, Polly!

What do you mean? Polly thought, confused.

The fire she's wearing about herself isn't even real, it's just an illusion! Passer thought at her urgently. Now Polly understood.

Thanks, she thought back. Polly tried not to make any hint of this interior exchange clear on her face, but on the inside she was joyful. There was no way she was losing this battle now. She started walking towards Ruby, ever so slowly.

“I don’t really understand what y’all were talking about with your song and whatnot,” Polly admitted as she began to edge closer and closer to Ruby. She didn’t bother charging this time—that had been a mistake before. Instead she just walked, slow and nonchalant. “But I think I do understand you, Ruby la Roux.”

Each step she took brought clear white light and fierce sounding music from an instrument Polly didn’t even recognize. The fire coming off of Ruby felt hot, but she knew for a fact that it wasn’t even real. It was just another stupid trick, like the lullaby she’d sung earlier. This woman wasn’t even a fighter like Polly was—she didn’t seem able to use any weapons or anything. All she could do was sing.

She was only a few feet away now, and Polly took the last few steps to put her in range with her spear. “You’re just a big,” step, “fat,” step, “fake!”

And with that, Polly slashed with her spear viciously from side to side, aiming straight for Ruby’s neck. Unless the spellsinger had some other tricks up her sleeves, the battle would soon be over.

[Ruby]

The scintillating flames began to die along with Ruby's vainglory and hope. All her efforts had been wasted against the talented girl with too much enthusiasm for a world that would come to scorn her. The heat of the arena gave her skin goose pimples, and the heavy drum beat that sounded as she stepped to and fro on restless feet mimicked the deep pulse of her own chest - her life force, soon to be spilt in an offering to the dark gods of the world.

"A fake?" She questioned, raising an eyebrow with a long and ominous look of aggression. "It is possible, who knows where the time goes to guess one's true identity?" She supposed in many ways that she was, for an actress spent much of her life pretending to be someone else, living their lies, their lives and their delicate imbalances through the eyes of another. Perhaps, just perhaps, Ruby La Roux had become possessed by the characters she embodied. It had happened to many more talented people than her, and it was happening to Duffy already.

"You will learn, hopefully, that people are never as they first appear. A painted face and a fantastic pair of tits might give the impression of womanhood, but beneath the posterior and the anxiety, there is nothing more than a shallow woman, searching for meaning in life." The confession came perhaps too late to sate Polly's anger, and far too late to have any immediate and lasting use in their confrontation.

Ruby did not even raise a hand to defend against the advancing and lacerating motion. She let the tip of the spear rake her throat and cut back across it in a simple, guttural rending of her existence. The simplicity of the attack reminded her of the pencil stroke signing a death warrant, or a regent signing his province away to the spoils of war. The pain washed down her body, elegant, curvaceous and almost avian in it's stocky thighs and thin, dancer heels. She was ready for it, so it did not haunt her as much as the cut of Avery's claws had done, or the shattering piercing lancing pains from the Orlougne's ice gambit. It was almost succulent, almost heavenly to be defeated so easily.

Her knees hit the tile in front of her and a long drawn out flat note of a piano rang through the air, an awkward chord expression sorrow and doubt in negative scales. She stared, hissing and bubbling the blood in her throat as she tried to whisper one last word, but fell forwards in a slump without the chance. A faint wisp of smoke rose from her feathers, which extended down her back and layered over her spine as the power of the ancient fire bird coursed through her in the last moments of her song.

It was a graceless and pointless death, but Ruby knew, in her heart beneath the cold ice thawed by flame, that she would rise again from the ashes; over and over and over, undying - she only wished Polly would take her words to heart, so as not to suffer the same cycling of torment she had done all her life.

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

Then there was one.

With a strike as simple and final as a period ending a sentence, had Polly ended Ruby la Roux. The body of the spellsinger lay crumpled in a pool of blood at her feet, and Polly looked in horror at what she had done.

I killed her, Polly thought, and that thought did horrify her. There lay a thought underneath that, though, one that she didn’t even want to admit to herself because admitting it might make her into a monster.

That thought was: I killed her, and it was easy.

Killing the werewolf had been different. That was a monster, and when she killed it she had cried, but they were the tears of someone emerging from a terrifying experience. The tears Polly shed now were more mournful, more full of sadness and regret. She had never killed another human being. Certainly she was in the Citadel, and so her opponent wasn’t really dead…but that was her blood on Polly’s spear, and there she lay with her throat slit.

Overhead, the hot desert sun had disappeared without warning, and the prairie was now as cold as a miser’s heart. Polly sobbed into her hands for a while, and they were messy, snotty, childish sobs, quiet and awkward and very real. It wasn’t the sort of crying you see from an actress or well put together noblewoman; Polly cried like a child.

Without really knowing what she was doing, she found herself walking across the desert tiles. They produced the somber and mournful harmonies of a dirge.

Then Polly danced. Slowly, awkwardly, and hesitantly, but dancing nonetheless. The music played under her feet and was bittersweet and melancholy. The pace quickened, though, as the desert around her faded into darkness. The music grew louder and louder, and the dance stronger, until—

Polly woke up in a bed in a medic’s room in the Citadel. Laying in the bunk next to her was Ruby la Roux, alive and healthy as ever. Her throat was clean and uncut, and she slept.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, Polly thought, and she wasn’t entirely sure where the thought came from.

“You won, Polly!” Passer said. He was perched on her bedpost.

“I guess so,” she said. “I don’t really feel like I won.”