Once upon a lifetime, two sisters stood here, stripping thorns with their milk-teeth and weaving rose stems to circlets. "You can be the Red Seour," one had said, smiling, and her elder sister, as always, agreed. Two lovers stand in the rose garden now, circling one another like serpents, calling out a name that is no longer, that died for Samsara to be born, that killed Oukoku-Kai. Once upon a lifetime, not so long ago, the Seour swore they would play crowns after, but, as she always had, it was a lie.
   Ashtar never really had a childhood-- although if Anamelech is any indicator, you're never too old to make believe.
   The roses' neat rows have overgrown at the loss of the Rengyo, and Ashtaroth notes where the openings lie and where they do not as she eavesdrops. Oh, the White is Red tonight, indeed. Miasma spots her first, facing the Tactician by happenstance.
   "You're not Scheherazade," she seethes, though subdued by Sarissa's proximity and a devilish curiosity.
   "No," Ashtar admits. If she knows both names, she must have come from the Valley-- the other is unlikely, judging by her insinuation of swapping Orders. She holds turquoise eyes with poise, opens with honesty before easing into the lie, "She was my mother."
   Rage boils from Miasma's frothing lips; of course there are more, there will always be fucking more, and you can never kill them all-- "Who the fuck are you!?" she snaps, tail lashing as she faces the taller girl.
   Ashtaroth notes the grey girl's telegraphed intentions, subtly shifting a back paw in preparation. There are no tells when she speaks. "Rosa Chinensis."
   She evades the dire's attack with an agile sidestep and swift donkey kick, which sends Miasma face-first into the unkempt roses, thick coat catching the thorns. She howls, only entangling herself in unchoreographed thrashing, while Ashtar inspects her current opponent. Sarissa is bigger in both respects, and although the odds are now even, Ashtar is still out the advantage of surprise she prefers. Instead, she upholds the act already instigated, maintaining the composure that comes so naturally. "Shall we dance?"