[Miasma]

  She's giddy with violence, prancing through the ashen dust of her homeland. She smells death, and roses, and absolute ecstasy. Every few seconds she glances for Sarissa-- her sickening sweet, queen of hearts, the only rose that has ever mattered.

  "Scheherazade!" the girl calls, hackles high as her morale. "Rosa Gigantea! Oh, my Rosa!" She giggles over the words, and every time she meets Sarissa's eyes. "I summon you, Scheherazade!"

  There is no answer. There never was.

  Miasma searches the fires and reflections of water from the rose garden that scion so loved. "White Rose, summon name Scheherazade. Inherited Gigantea from her father, son of my father..." Smoke blots out the colours of the sunset, but the blaze of the forest maze is unperturbed. She has a taste for family, now, and she is starving. "Come out, Anamelech!" The name of a god is not to be taken lightly-- but neither is murder. Neither should the thorn-sharp Sword by her side. "Come, Scheherazade, and meet the girl you couldn't kill!"

Come now, cousin. Die for her.

[Sarissa]

It grows dark, the smoke burning against the orange glow of the sun. A perfect circle able to be viewed, but burned if observed too long. The fires burned brighter, heavier as they ate through the maze and deeper into the valley. Snow-like-ash drizzled steadily now, blanketing everything.

The sword followed the enthusiastic chanting of Miasma who called to summon one of the Gods. Strange and unusual names and vocabulary, ones that Sarissa did not understand. Was the Rosa, Scheherazade and Anamelech all one person? Red eyes swayed to each side, searching for any movement that would come their way. She was eager to meet this God, wondering if they were the one she had met before, if they were the one she had seen set ablaze. Memories were fuzzy at best, but Sarissa was ready to strike.

And each time The dark girl swung toward Sarissa's direction, blue would meet red and she felt calm. A soft smile wormed up her muzzle as she decided to join in the dance, leaping forward and swinging around with Miasma. "White rose, you say?" Sarissa reiterated, curious now. It sounds like they were family as well, how interesting. Miasma was hers now; not Crow's, not Scheherazade's.

But hers.

"Let me help you paint them Red." she declared, unknowing how ironic this would be. Yet Red had been Sarissa's color of choice, the color she favored. The color of the roses she bathed in.

And the Queen of the Red Roses was just as vicious.

✦ ✦ Speech Text ✦ ✦

[Ashtaroth]

   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?"