The Ballad of Shadows and Light

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/* player character */ <<set $pesis to " ">> <<set $pesisclass to " ">> <<set $therapistunseen to false>> <<set $str = 5>> <<set $dex = 5>> <<set $con = 5>> <<set $nrv = 5>> <<set $arc = 5>> /* story events */ <<set $chapter to " ">> <<set $location to " ">> <<set $choice to 0>> <<set $horsefail to false>> <<set $mommurderer to " ">> <<set $esnupi to 0>> /* fighting minigame */ <<set $strmod = 0>> <<set $dexmod = 0>> <<set $conmod = 0>> <<set $nrvmod = 0>> <<set $arcmod = 0>> <<set $hp = 1>> <<set $maxhp = 1>> <<set $playerRPS to " ">> <<set $npcRPS to " ">> <<set $wins to 0>> <<set $losses to 0>> /* rizz minigame */ <<set $rizz to 0>> <<set $clarissaromanced to false>> <<set $dickwet to false>> <<set $oleanderq to 0>> /* quiz minigame */ <<set $quizscore to 0>> /* mopping minigame */ <<set $mopgoal to 0>> <<set $mopscore to 0>> <<set $mopspill to false>>

<<if $mopspill is true>>You spilled the mop bucket. You'll have to start over now. <<set _sadkitty to random(1,9)>> <<if _sadkitty is 1>>The maid stares at the water pooled at your feet and sighs forlornly, like a dog who sighs like they’re employed despite being a freeloader, except she is employed because she’s a maid, and you just <i>maid</i> her job a lot harder. Har-har.<<elseif _sadkitty is 2>>The maid stares at the water pooled at your feet and sighs forlornly, like a dog who sighs like they’re employed despite being a freeloader, except she is employed because she’s a maid.<<elseif _sadkitty is 3>>The light in Kitty’s eye dies out, but she says nothing. Disappointment is a feeling she is accustomed to.<<elseif _sadkitty is 4>>You look at Kitty. “Was that good?” “No,” she shakes her head. “Don’t piss me off.”<<elseif _sadkitty is 5>>Kitty exhales shakily. She needs a smoke.<<elseif _sadkitty is 6>>Fuck. You fucked up. Kitty pretends not to notice this time.<<elseif _sadkitty is 7>>Kitty looks at you, betrayed. “Do I make you want to hurt me,” she asks. “Is this why you do this?”<<elseif _sadkitty is 8>>Kitty gets down on her knees and puts her forehead to the puddle on the floor. She egregiously sobs and moans for just one very loud and uncomfortable moment. Then she gets up. “Okay,” she says. “I’m good now.”<<elseif _sadkitty is 9>>Kitty stares at your spilled mop water a long while before lighting up a cigarette. "I should call <span class = ilya>her...</span>" she sighs.<</if>> <</if>> You mop. <p><<link "tutorial">><<run Dialog .create("Tutorial",) .wikiPassage("moptutorial") .open();>> </center><</link>></p> <<if ($mopgoal gt $mopscore)>><<set $mopspill to false>><<button [[mop the floor|mopping loop]]>> <<set _d20 to random (1,20)>> <<if _d20 == 1>> <<set $mopscore to 0>> <<set $mopspill to true>> <</if>> <<if _d20 gt 1>> <<set $mopscore += 1>> <</if>> <</button>> <<elseif ($mopgoal == $mopscore)>><<button [[you're done here|mopping done]]>><</button>> <</if>>

“Okay, phew.” You’re done mopping. Granted, it looks a little like shit. But you did it. “I’ve never seen anyone spill a mop bucket that many times before,” says Kitty. “Yeah. Can I go lop off my brother’s head now?” “Go for it,” Kitty nods, pulling one key from a very big utility ring of keys. She steps to the door where your treacherous brother and his evil girlfriend—fiancee? reside. As it opens, vape cloud spills out like a fog machine, obscuring Kitty from your view. It kind of does smell like fuck in there. Kitty’s voice fades out as she leaves you to it. “Good luck,” she calls out. When the fog dissipates, she, too, has disappeared. <<if ($mopgoal == $mopscore)>><<button [[you're done here|navy1]]>><<set $mopscore to 0>><</button>> <</if>>

The Ballad of Shadow and Light

<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>> <style> h1 {margin-top:20vh; font-size: 3em; letter-spacing:0.25em; text-transform: uppercase;} .passage>p {text-indent: 0em;} button, select { text-align:center; font-size: 1em; height: 3.75em; width: 10.5em; } #passages{ border-right: 0px solid var(--accent); border-left: 0px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: none; } #ui-bar{display:none;} </style><h1>The Ballad of Shadows and Light</h1><span class = fade><hr></span></center> <<cont append>><center><center><table> <tr> <td style="width:25%"><<button [[Begin|DISCLAIMER]]>><<set $chapter to "Chapter 0 of The Ballad of Shadows and Light: The Challenge Unseen ">><<set $location to "Dorm">><<run UIBar.show();>><</button>> <<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<button "Return">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</button>><</if>></td> <td style="width:25%"><<button "Resume">><<run UI.saves()>><</button>></td> <td style="width:25%"><<button "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</button>></td> <td style="width:25%"><<button [[Content Warnings|cw]]>><</button>></td> </tr> </table></center> <</cont>>

<<script>> var passages = document.getElementById("passages"); passages.scrollTop = 0; <</script>> <<if tags().includes("title")>> <<else>><div id = header><span>$chapter</span><span><span class = headertext> $location</span></span></div> <</if>>

<b>The Ballad of Shadows and Light</b> is intended for an adult audience. It parodies internet-popular works of fiction in a genre dubbed “dark romantasy” and thus contains content warnings for the following: <ul><li>Genre-typical treatment of gender, gender roles, sex, and sexuality</li> <li>Mild sexual content</li> <li>Mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation</li> <li>Depictions of death, violence, injuries, and gore</li> <li>Use of firearms and bladed weapons</li> <li>Use of tobacco and other drugs</li> <li>Description of medical procedures (blood draw), needles.</li> <li>Vomit, other bodily fluids</li> </ul> <<button [[Got it|mainmenu]]>><</button>>

placeholder text $mopscore / $mopgoal

Today is a relatively nice day, but not that nice, because you live in Philadelphia. It’s been raining, which really accentuates the scent of highway, alleyway dumpster, and stale alcohol. You’re in college after all, majoring in partying and business. Or something like that. You’re not certain of the last time you went to class but finals are soon-ish. Like any normal Tuesday, you roll out of bed, your naked mattress staring nakedly at you. It’s kinda stained. Your roommate—a bonafide social media star, supposedly—has already left for the day. Probably filmed one of those uncomfortable GRWM videos where he starts off in his underwear with you in the background, blissfully unconscious and drooling on your half-pillowcased pillow. You shuffle over the crusty bathroom rugs towards the combination mirror/medicine cabinet in your dorm bathroom. It’s slightly askew, as though someone had punched it recently. Not you. You prefer to stare broodily, like you’re doing now, hands clenched on the chipped, cold porcelain of the sink. Those hands are: <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Alabaster|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Lily-white|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Blanched|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Bloodless|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Ivory|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Beige|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Porcelain|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Landlord special|cc1.5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[|Alabaster|cc1.5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

// CHOICE <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[option 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[option 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>> // BUTTONS <<button [[CONTINUE|eee]]>><</button>> <<button [[CONTINUE|eee]]>><<set $var to " ">><</button>> // FOR DELETING THE GO BACK BUTTON <style> #menu-story{display:none;} </style

But enough staring at your hands and sniffing pits. Beneath your furrowed brows, your orbs glint in the fluorescent overhead light. Your right eye is: <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Cerulean|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sky blue|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sea blue|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Wine-dark sea|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Azure|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Berylline|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Blue raspberry|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sapphire|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Navy|cc3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Caesious|cc3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Your other eye, narrowed as you smirk at your reflection is: <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Cerulean|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sky blue|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sea blue|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Wine-dark sea|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Azure|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Berylline|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Blue raspberry|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sapphire|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Navy|cc4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Caesious|cc4]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You run your hands through your fluffy hair, effortlessly surrendering from the evils of bedhead to the typical, almost perfectly coiffed style you prefer. Your roots are dark, while the rest of your hair is: <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Golden|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sun-stuck|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Aureate|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Gilded|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Honey|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[The shade of fields of wheat in autumn sun|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yellow|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sunflower|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Midas-touched|cc5]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Fulgent |cc5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

That’s enough obsessing over your hair, perfectly tousled into a just roguish enough hairstyle for a guy like you. Speaking of which, what are your pronouns, king? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[he/him/his|cc6]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[he, because i’ll never be <i>him</i>|cc6]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

;) <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[3.75|cc7][$pesis to "3.75", $pesisclass to "small"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[a respectable 5|cc7][$pesis to "a respectable 5", $pesisclass to "small"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6.33|cc7][$pesis to "6.33", $pesisclass to "small"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[7.5|cc7][$pesis to "7.5", $pesisclass to "small"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[9|cc7][$pesis to "9", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[10|cc7][$pesis to "10", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[10.5|cc7][$pesis to "10.5", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[11|cc7][$pesis to "11", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[11.5|cc7][$pesis to "11.5", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[12 (that’s a sandwich)|cc7][$pesis to "12 (that’s a sandwich)", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[13|cc7][$pesis to "13", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[15|cc7][$pesis to "15", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[17|cc7][$pesis to "17", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[20|cc7][$pesis to "20", $pesisclass to "large"]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Broke the charts….. ;)|cc7][$pesis to "Broke the charts….. ;)", $pesisclass to "small"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Size isn’t everything – how tall are you? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[5’9”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[5’10”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[5’11”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’0”(liar)|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’1”(you meet dating app height requirements)|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’2”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’3”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’4”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’5”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’6”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’7”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6’8”|cc8]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[What are you doing in college? The non-local market basketball team needs a center.|cc8]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You leave the bathroom to go look in another mirror as you pretend to film your own Get Ready With Me video, complete with awkward checking yourself out in the mirror and a heavy focus on your less-than-recently washed underwear. You pick out clothes for today, your usual style of: <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sporty and casual, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Fashionable but casual, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Casual and clean, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Hoodies and ripped jeans, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[A button up and slacks, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[A polo and khaki shorts, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Something kinda slutty… with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead.|cc9]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[A monochromatic outfit, kind of edgy, with your signature white sneakers. You’re kind of a sneakerhead. |cc9]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

While we’re at it, can you answer a few questions? These are <i>really</i> important. Your answers may change the course of your life. <<button [[Sure.|cc10]]>><</button>>

How many days per week do you hit the gym? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[0-1 days|cc11][($str to 3) , ($strmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[1-2 days|cc11][($str to 4) , ($strmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[2-3 days|cc11][($str to 5) , ($strmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[3-4 days|cc11][($str to 6) , ($strmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[4-5 days|cc11][($str to 7) , ($strmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[5-6 days|cc11][($str to 8) , ($strmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[I need help.|cc11][($str to 9) , ($strmod to 2)]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

On a scale of 1-10, how likely are you to fall off one of the campus Citrus scooters while hitting a sick kickflip? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[1 (least likely)|cc12][($dex to 10) , ($dexmod to 2)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[2|cc12][($dex to 9) , ($dexmod to 2)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[3|cc12][($dex to 8) , ($dexmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[4|cc12][($dex to 7) , ($dexmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[5(neither likely nor unlikely)|cc12][($dex to 6) , ($dexmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6|cc12][($dex to 5) , ($dexmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[7|cc12][($dex to 4) , ($dexmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[8|cc12][($dex to 3) , ($dexmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[9|cc12][($dex to 2) , ($dexmod to -2)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[10(most likely)|cc12][($dex to 1) , ($dexmod to -2)]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>

When was the last time you ate a vegetable? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Don’t know/Can’t remember|cc13][($con to 3) , ($conmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Last month|cc13][($con to 4) , ($conmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Last week|cc13][($con to 6) , ($conmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yesterday|cc13][($con to 8) , ($conmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Today|cc13][($con to 10) , ($conmod to 2)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Microwaved bean burrito counts as a vegetable, right?|cc13][($con to 2) , ($conmod to -2)]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Have you authentically journaled recently? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yes|cc14][$nrv += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[No.|cc14][$nrv -= 1]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>> /*hp calc!*/ <<set _dontfuckupthecon to $con>> <<set _maxhpcalc to (_dontfuckupthecon *= 2)>> <<set $maxhp to (_maxhpcalc += 20)>> <<set $hp to $maxhp>>

Do you see a therapist? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yes|cc15][($nrv += 1) , ($therapistunseen to false)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[No|cc15][($nrv -= 3) , ($therapistunseen to true)]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Are you honest with the therapist? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $therapistunseen is false>><li><div class = choice-item> [[YEs|cc16][$nrv += 1]] </div></li><</if>> <<if $therapistunseen is false>><li><div class = choice-item> [[No|cc16][$nrv -= 1]] </div></li><</if>> <<if $therapistunseen is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[n/a|cc16]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

In the sessions with the therapist, have you addressed your long-standing issues with your mother? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $therapistunseen is false>><li><div class = choice-item> [[YES|cc17][$nrv += 2]] </div></li> <<if $therapistunseen is false>><li><div class = choice-item> [[what are you a cop?|cc17]] </div></li><</if>> <<elseif $therapistunseen is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[n/a|cc17]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Say something beautiful and true to your younger self. <center><<textarea "_whogiveshit" "">></center> <<button [[OK.|cc18]]>><</button>> /*do the math for the nrv mod here*/ <<if $nrv is 1>><<set $nrvmod to -2>><<elseif $nrv is 2>><<set $nrvmod to -2>><<elseif $nrv is 3>><<set $nrvmod to -1>><<elseif $nrv is 4>><<set $nrvmod to -1>><<elseif $nrv is 5>><<set $nrvmod to 0>><<elseif $nrv is 6>><<set $nrvmod to 0>><<elseif $nrv is 7>><<set $nrvmod to 1>><<elseif $nrv is 8>><<set $nrvmod to 1>><<elseif $nrv is 9>><<set $nrvmod to 2>><<elseif $nrv is 10>><<set $nrvmod to 2>><</if>>

What’s your average screen-time per week? Be honest. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Less than 2 hours|cc19][($arc to 7) , ($arcmod to 1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[2-4 hours|cc19][($arc to 6) , ($arcmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[4-6 hours|cc19][($arc to 5) , ($arcmod to 0)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[6-8 hours|cc19][($arc to 4) , ($arcmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[8-10 hours|cc19][($arc to 3) , ($arcmod to -1)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[10+ hours|cc19][($arc to 2) , ($arcmod to -2)]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Favorite color? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Taupe gray|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Uranian blue|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[79745c|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Tickle me pink|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Fulvous|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Black (shadow)|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[White (the light)|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Timberwolf|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Caput mortuum|cc20]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Icterine|cc20]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

lol last question. Choose a lyric from a song… <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?” – Firework, famous astronaut Katy Perry|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[option 2|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“Poppin’ bottles in the ice / Like a blizzard / When we drink we do it right / Gettin’ slizzard” – Like A G6, Far East Movement|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“These wounds won’t seem to heal / This pain is just too real / There’s just too much that time cannot erase” – My Immortal Evanescence the main singer is Amy Lee lol… (A/N: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!)|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“You show the lights that stop me / Turn to stone (home) / You shine it when I’m alone (home) / Home home (lights lights lights) / (Lights lights lights lights)” – Lights, Ellie Goulding|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“If our love’s insanity / Why are you my clarity?” Clarity by Zedd|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“Well baby I’m a put on a show kind of girl ;) / Don’t like the back seat / Gotta be first” Circus Britney Spears|cc21]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [["aeaeaeaeaeae im your little butterfly green black and blue make the color of the sky" smile- butterfly (official music video)|cc21]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

nvm lol tell me something about yourself! (this one doesn’t affect your score btw) <center><<textarea "_whogiveshit" "">></center> <<button [[OK.|ccfinal]]>><</button>>

That’s enough staring. You have a bus to catch. And by catch, you mean stand in front of. This is a cry for help. <<button [[OK.|real world 1]]>><</button>>

You sniff your pits and decide not to apply deodorant—because you already smell so good, your natural musk will just be masked by it. What do you smell like? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Dark Onyx Thunderstorm|cc2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Deep Evergreen Woods|cc2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Musky.... a musk that smells masculine, and sexy|cc2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Ancient Zest: Admiral|cc2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald|cc2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Hatchet|cc2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>> <style> h1 {margin-top:20vh; font-size: 3em; letter-spacing:0.25em;} .passage>p {text-indent: 0em;} button, select { text-align:center; font-size: 1em; height: 3.75em; width: 10.5em; } #passages{ border-right: 0px solid var(--accent); border-left: 0px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: none; } #ui-bar{display:none;} #header{display:none;} </style><center><h1><span class = fade><span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span></span></h1><span class = fade><hr></span></center> <<cont append>><center><span class = ilya><i>This is gonna hurt...</i></span> <<button [[OK.|ilya 3]]>><<run UIBar.show();>><<set $chapter to "Chapter II of The Ballad of Shadow and Light: The First Trial of the East Southeastern Court">><<set $location to "a very strange room filled with strange things">><</button>> </center><</cont>>

<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>> <style> body{background: #5D2424;} h1 {margin-top:20vh; font-size: 3em; letter-spacing:0.25em; text-transform: uppercase;} .passage>p {text-indent: 0em;} button, select { text-align:center; font-size: 1em; height: 3.75em; width: 10.5em; } #passages{ border-right: 0px solid var(--accent); border-left: 0px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: none; } #ui-bar{display:none;} #header{display:none;} </style><center><h1><span class = fade>The Rizzler, Clarissa</span></h1><span class = fade><hr></span></center> <<cont append>><center><i>“Haha, sorry. Are you sure you’re in the right place? I mean. Sorry. I’ve just never had a boy in my room before. I mean, yes, yes I have, haha. I’m so good at getting it. I mean. Yeah. Um. I think I’m in love with you. Sorry, haha. I didn’t mean that. Unless…? Okay, no, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. Haha. I love you. Okay now I’m done. Sorry.”</i> <<button [[OK.|clarizza 2]]>><<run UIBar.show();>><<set $location to "bedchambers ;)">><<set $chapter to "Chapter 4 of The Ballad of Shadow and Light: The Third Trial of the East Southeastern Court">><</button>> </center><</cont>>

<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>> <style> h1 {margin-top:20vh; font-size: 3em; letter-spacing:0.25em; text-transform: uppercase;} .passage>p {text-indent: 0em;} button, select { text-align:center; font-size: 1em; height: 3.75em; width: 10.5em; } #passages{ border-right: 0px solid var(--accent); border-left: 0px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: none; } #ui-bar{display:none;} #header{display:none;} </style><center><h1><span class = fade>Fieldmarshal-Lieutenant Harrow [placeholder], Battlemaster of the Grand Imperial Army</span></h1><span class = fade><hr></span></center> <<cont append>><center><i>You lost count of the medals she's wearing about 15 medals ago. How do you even earn that many? What could they <b>possibly</b> be for -- other than killing people? Should you ask? Will she get another medal if you ask? She'll definitely get one when she kills you...</i> <<button [[OK.|harrow 4]]>><<run UIBar.show();>><<set $chapter to "Chapter 3 of The Ballad of Shadow and Light: The Second Trial of The East Southeastern Courts">><<set $location to "hell is a spreadsheet">><</button>> </center><</cont>>

<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>> <style> h1 {margin-top:20vh; font-size: 3em; letter-spacing:0.25em; text-transform: uppercase;} .passage>p {text-indent: 0em;} button, select { text-align:center; font-size: 1em; height: 3.75em; width: 10.5em; } #passages{ border-right: 0px solid var(--accent); border-left: 0px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: none; } #ui-bar{display:none;} #header{display:none;} </style><center><h1><span class = fade>Your Older Brother's Girlfriend or Perhaps Fiancee -- You Really Weren't Paying Attention And Kinda Forgot Anyways -- Navy</span></h1><span class = fade><hr></span></center> <<cont append>><center><i>“Babe, if I go looking for your vape and it’s exactly where I told you it would be, you’re in trouble. Oh, look at that, here it is—under the throne again. Do you even look? With your eyes? Do you? Or do you just expect me to do it for you? Yeah, we should probably get you another dispo bar soon, it looks like this one is almost out. Love you, babe.”</i> <<button [[OK.|navy4]]>><<run UIBar.show();>><<set $chapter to "chapter 8 of the ball of shadows and light: the. oh okay no more trials?">><<set $location to "your brother's room">><</button>> </center><</cont>>

:: StoryMenu<<link "Go Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>>

Financial help. You’re in debt. So, so much student loan debt – you went to one of those seminars where they taught you how to take care of that sort of stuff while you’re still in school and you just sighed as you signed into your student loan account and looked at the absurd number that was there. If you opened your wallet, a really large and expensive looking moth would fly out. To fly into the light that is your student loan debt and die there, twitching buggily. So that’s why you’re going to stand in front of a bus today. Your mom’s friend knows a lawyer and while he couldn’t <i>explicitly</i> tell you whether it was a good idea to get hit by one of the university buses, he did kind of confirm that it would be possible to sue the school for tuition and medical expenses and the like. And you don’t really need to fully get hit by the bus either. Just a little sideswiping will do, enough to smear your face on the grinning advertisements for the very same school that has you frowning and get some gnarly bruises and minor broken bones or maybe a concussion. Just a little kiss of the bus grill and then writhing on the pavement. You’re no acting major but surely it’s not that difficult. You dodge dodgy alleyway puddles – it’s been raining but this could also be pee or dumpster juice and you really can’t get your nice white signature shoes dirty. You spent your mother’s good money on those. The bus stop—destiny—awaits. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue.|real world 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

And the bus is late. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue.|real world 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You wait, swiping between apps on your phone and occasionally glancing up at potential bus noises, your brother’s wisdom: “to catch a bus, you must think like a bus” echoing in your ears. <<button [[Wait for the bus|real world 4]]>><</button>>

The bus is late. Really late. <<button [[Wait for the bus|real world 5]]>><</button>>

The bus is late. Like. Really late. <<button [[Wait for the bus|real world 6]]>><</button>>

If you cared about being on time to class, you’d be really, really mad right now. It’s been about 20 minutes and the steady rain has picked back up, a drizzle damp on your shoulders, soaking through the lack of jacket you’re wearing. Around the corner, the unmistakable sound of your chariot – deliverance from student loan debt, the bus, the glorious bus with its gleaming flat windshield and rumbling wheels spitting nasty asphalt water and student driver hopefully too understanding to swerve and deny you the sweet succor of a hospital bed for I don’t know I didn’t research this, what, five to seven days and also a meeting with a lawyer to determine what you could possibly win from the school that has wounded you so – approacheth. You adjust the tongue of your signature white sneaker and stand, closing your eyes and stepping out unto oblivion, a puddle from the trash-clogged drain soaking through your socks. But the bus doesn’t hit you. And now you’re mad. Because it swerved around you, all but hydroplaning thanks to the lowered traction of its tires on the roadway in the rain, honking fanatically as the student driver flips you the bird. Not that you saw them do that, because your eyes were still closed as not to flinch when the bus – Death – approached. And also you got completely soaked because of the aforementioned hydroplaning and the puddle that emptied itself entirely onto you and your signature white sneakers. Your shoulders slump as you stand soggily in the middle of the bus lane, rain beating down on your hair and slicking it flat on your head so you look like a wet cat who is also not enthusiastic about being in the rain. “Damn,” you mutter, reaching into your pockets to fish out your wireless luxury headphones. At least you’ll have tunes for the three to five minute hike back to your dorm apartment where you can flop in bed and ignore class for the day. That’s when it hits you. No, not realization or motivation or the bus or anything so interesting and cool, but the dumpster shaped car that shouldn’t have been in the bus lane at all but was probably using it to pass other cars on their patriotic imported coffee and far-right radio show and ivermectin fueled morning commute to their financial sector job. You didn’t hear it and the driver was too busy hate-commenting on someone dubiously younger than them’s spring break selfie to even notice their solid metal wheels rolling over you. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[(fade to black).|black screen]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

A gentle slapping on your face brings you back to reality. That, and the lurid red warning currently at the top of the page. I have no idea what causes it and sometimes it's just not there. “Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a woman sneers from the depths of a hood, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are long and yellowy. You’re laying on a bed made of straw and discomfort, which is basically just a dorm bed anyways – not a hospital bed. Which is strange because you were definitely hit by a several ton electric vehicle prone to losing door panels at speed. You should be in the hospital and not somewhere else. Unless this is hell. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Is this hell?|expo2][($choice to 1) , ($chapter to "Chapter 0 of The Ballad of Shadows and Light: The Necessary Exposition") , ($location to "£location")]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Where am I?|expo2][($choice to 2) , ($chapter to "Chapter 0 of The Ballad of Shadows and Light: The Necessary Exposition") , ($location to "£location")]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Ough…|expo2][($choice to 3) , ($chapter to "Chapter 0 of The Ballad of Shadows and Light: The Necessary Exposition") , ($location to "£location")]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“Is this- am I in hell?” you mumble, your mouth full of moth and cotton balls and tasting a lot like the socks you’re wearing. Your shoes… no… where are your shoes? Cloak lady chortles, flexing her strange witch fingers. She wears a wedding ring with a cracked emerald which feels really irresponsible of her. “No, my boy… my son… no no, this is not at all hell…”<<elseif $choice is 2>>“I’m not in Philadelphia anymore, am I? Where am I?” you manage with a mouthful of cotton balls not literal but entirely metaphorically; you feel like you’re being choked on your tongue and that’s not cool or kinky or anything. Cloak lady throws her head back, chortling loudly as she flexes her nasty witch fingers. She wears a wedding ring with a cracked emerald that threatens to fall out and be lost and you really don’t want to help her find that. “No, my boy… my son… you are far from home and yet home all the same… you are home at last! At long last…” <<elseif $choice is 3>>You make some horrific noise that the devs didn’t want to transcribe, somewhere between clearing your throat to summon a hairball of fine, golden hair the color of corn flax illumed by a late summer’s sun and the honeycomb-lunged cough of the vaper. Cloak lady throws her head back as though she were going to laugh before looking at you with what you can only presume to be disgust. You can’t see it because she wears a deep hood that shades her face into total darkness but you can feel it. It’s a look of disgust. “That was… ew. I have a whole ramble about prophecy and now I need a moment because of that <i>disgusting</i> noise you just made, boy…” <</if>>You miss the rest of what she’s saying and the importance of it because of the rattling of your glorious plot armor. Because you’ve woken in a full suit of it, a glimmering glorious breastplate of shimmering white steel over which an engraved gorget flows into spaulders and pauldrons to accentuate the noble set of your shoulders. Your muscular arms are guarded with vambraces and coulters and rerebraces and beneath them is a deep blue cloth similar in shade to your eyes and more fine, glimmering chainmail in delicate links. As you swing your legs out of the bed, you notice the blue cloth continues, fine embroidery with a sun pattern at its hem falling on plate-covered knees and shins, the chainmail clinking with approval. No shoes though. You can see your toe through the hole in your white off-brand sports socks. She presents you with them, your signature white sneakers – you are a sneakerhead, after all, and this has apparently survived death and resurrection both – and you bend to slip them on and adjust them, admiring your whole fit together in the mirror conveniently at the foot of your bed. You look noble. You look good. The witch-lady laughs again as you check yourself out, slipping a blue and gold cloak around your shoulders. “You’re missing a crown, dear boy,” she creaks out and you turn to face her. “I’m really not. I don’t even know how I got here or even where <i>here</i> is.” “Nonsense, my son..!” She laughs froggily, the sound caught in her throat. She throws the cloak off dramatically, the black fabric pooling like the asphalt puddle that splashed you around her feet. It doesn’t reveal much—she’s still got simple black clothing but a weird knife at her belt and gnarly hands that slick black hair away from her face. She’s old but not that old. Like could be your mother old. And she does insist she’s your mother. Though she doesn’t really sound like your mother, she sounds like if someone said that they were going to do a witch impression and then half-gave up and attempted a Russian accent too. But she says she’s your mother and she sure looks like she could be. She’s in the right age group and everything. “I am your mother, Oleander… you must listen to me… I have machinations and plans. There was a prophecy, you see…” “A prophecy?” “Yes, my son… a prophecy…” She takes a deep breath. “There was a prophecy, long before you were born, that prophesied that two brothers would lay claim to the throne… and the kingdom that came with it. All that the light touches, and all the shadow caresses would fall under the domain of New Delphine, as our fair, petal haired queen predicted some two ages ago… These are the lands of the East Southeastern Unseelie courts, yes, the courts of the fae of the east southeast and she was the finest amongst them, for her hair was the pinkest and her prophecies the clearest. She said there was to be a soothsayer who married a prince, and of their union, a pair of sons. One dark, and one light. ” You look at your armor. “So where do I fit into this?” Your mother cackles, the grackling laughter seeming to echo in the tiny room. “My son, I am not done… stay your tongue.” “Oh. Okay.” “There was a prophecy, long before you were born, that prophesied that two brothers would lay claim to the throne… and the kingdom that came with it. All that the light touches, and all the shadow caresses would fall under the domain of New Delphine, as our fair, petal haired queen predicted some two ages ago… These are the lands of the East Southeastern Unseelie courts, yes, the courts of the fae of the east southeast and she was the finest amongst them, for her hair was the pinkest and her prophecy spoken through metal-gilt teeth most viral. She said there was to be a soothsayer who married a prince, and of their union, a pair of sons. One dark, and one light. One boy was doomed to slay their father horribly at his brother’s behest, and to be exiled forever… to a strange land beyond my soothsayer’s sight and reach, only to return when shadow and light needed to be balanced. Your brother sits on a sunlit throne and rules so… single-mindedly. There is no balance, no shadow to light nor light to shadow. But you have returned.” “I guess so?” You shrug, your armor clattering. “Sorry I killed Dad.” “Don’t worry about it, my beautiful baby boy…” “Really?” “Yes, really. I said not to worry about it and you’re not listening and following directions… neither you nor your brother were ever good at it, so try now, hmm? Can we listen and follow directions?” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yes.|expo3][$choice to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[No.|expo3][$choice to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Sorry mom.|expo3][$choice to 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“10-4, mom.” “What the fuck did you just say to me?” your mother draws the knife from her belt and you can see your reflection in the blade, pausing in your terror to fix your hair real quick before blurting out: “I mean that I understand and I will listen and follow directions.”<<elseif $choice is 2>>“No.” “What the fuck did you just say to me?” your mother draws the knife from her belt and you can see your reflection in the blade, pausing in your terror to fix your hair real quick before blurting out: “Oh, shit! Okay, I mean that I understand and I will listen and follow directions.”<<elseif $choice is 3>>“Sorry, mom,” you sigh. “I’ll do a better job of it than my brother.”<</if>> “Good… good… come with me, son, I still have much to explain and we have many miles to travel to reach your treacherous brother… I will have justice for my husband, at long last… the right son will rule with impunity and I shall be exalted for what I am! Soothsayer and mother! Of prophecy!” “Didn’t- didn’t I kill dad?” “Be quiet, Oleander… let me have this…” <<button [[OK.|expo4]]>><</button>>

She knows your name. Oleander. So she must be your mother. Surely, nobody would lie to you in the courts of the East Southeast, the fae courts famous for taking the names of the unsuspecting and using them to their own benefit for all sorts of tax and benefit fraud. She leads you outside, the sun winking and smiling off of your glorious plot armor as you walk down a small cobblestone path towards a stable. There are horses there, as there often are in stables. She leads the way towards a tall white horse with a crooked smile. You didn’t know horses could smile. “I’ve never ridden a horse before,” you say, staring at the smiling beast. It smiles so sinisterly. “God… I’m such a bad mother… Am I a bad mother, Oleander? I took care of you and tried my best and you cannot ride a horse..? That’s fine, my son…” Your mother gracefully leaps onto the horse in a single bound, gently nudging it onward. “You may walk… for now.” So you walk. And your mother talks. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|expo5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

From atop the horse, your mother talks. “Some ages ago, there was a prophecy, long before you were born, that prophesied that two warring brothers would lay claim to the throne… and the vast imperial kingdom comprised of the former East Southeastern Fae Courts that came with it. The prophecy said that the light touches, and all the shadow caresses would fall under the domain of New Delphine – the logical successor to the East Southeastern Fae Court – as our fair, petal haired queen predicted some two ages ago… These are the lands of the East Southeastern Unseelie courts, yes, the courts of the fae of the east southeast and she was the finest amongst them, for her hair was the pinkest and her prophecy spoken through the finest metal-gilt teeth most viral. This is what she said: she said there was to be a beautiful, raven-haired, well-built, hot, kinda a milf soothsayer who married a prince, and of their union would come well… a pair of sons.” You don’t like the smirk she has but she continues anyways. “One dark, of the shadows, and one light, of the lights. But..! It is a tragic tale… One boy was always and forevermore doomed to slay their father horribly at his brother’s behest, and the punishment for such a crime – blood on the palace floors – is to be exiled forever… yes… exiled to a strange land beyond my soothsayer’s sight and reach, only to return when shadow and light needed to be balanced. And so here we are..!” Your mother gestures at a tall castle with a bunch of spires and walls and parapets and other castle features, all a dark, imposing stone that towers over you and your mother and the horse. The drawbridge and portcullis are down, an open mouth that you must walk into and be devoured, chewed up and spit out – it’s a good thing you’re in plot armor. Everything here looks like it’s wanting to impale you. Also — just to be clear: it wasn’t that far of a walk, if we’re being completely honest. The horse looks bored, and you’re fairly certain you walk further every day to the convenience store for a little sweet treat. Which you could really use right now but there doesn’t appear to be a convenience store or a gas station or anything around. Just a tall castle with a bunch of spires and walls and parapets and other castle features, all a dark, imposing stone that towers over you and your mother and the horse. The drawbridge and portcullis are down, an open mouth that you must walk into and be devoured, chewed up and spit out – it’s a good thing you’re in plot armor. Everything here looks like it’s wanting to impale you. The sound of your mother’s voice drags you back to reality: “Your brother sits in a castle of shade on a sunlit throne and rules so… single-mindedly. There is no balance, no shadow to light nor light to shadow. But you have returned, my son… you have returned..!” “I did do that,” you say, looking around. Nobody else seems to be around, like they were all scared inside or something else convenient as not to have to write a bustling city scene. “We are so back.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|expo6]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Your mother hops off the horse and into the dirt because all medieval settings that are gritty are colorless and dirty and dimly lit. It swirls around her boots in little plumes and clouds because the flagstones are buried in dirt. “What are you doing?” You ask, because now the horse is just standing there, resplendent in his finery, all blue and bright gold from his embroidered fancy horse jacket-thing that knights sometimes have to bridle and halter and other items of horse tack. Your mother pats the handsome reddish leather saddle. “Get on…” “I’ve never ridden a horse before.” “I’m such a horrible mother…” “Mom, please, I just don’t.” You gesticulate at the beast whose smile has returned, more sinister than ever. “I don’t where to start do I just-” She sighs loudly, like you’ve just told her that you switched your major to creative writing. “Just get on the horse.” <<button "get on the horse.">> <<set _d20 to random (1,20)>> <<if _d20 lte 7>> <<set $horsefail to true>> <<goto "horsefail">> [[horsefail]] <</if>> <<if _d20 gt 7>> <<goto "horsepass">> [[horsepass]] <</if>> <</button>>

You get on the horse. It immediately starts backing up. You seem to have put it in reverse. “Uh, mom?” Your mother sighs, waggling her strange, creepy, long witch fingers at the horse who is spurred to motion, slowly trotting over the drawbridge and into the castle. Ahead of you, the main hall looms, tall and spooky. Your brother must be <i>really</i> evil to warrant the castle looking like this. You trot through the handful of buildings between you and the main hall, which is the tallest building around by a lot, towering into the sky and looming over the sun. The door opens without anyone opening it, just swinging on massive creaky hinges. The sound is immense, an uproarious creaking. You and the horse go up the steps, with your mother beside you. You don’t even have to duck, that’s how tall the doors and the hall are. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[You remember this place.|expo7][($choice to 1) , ($location to "your brother's throne room, new delphine")]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[You don't remember this place.|expo7][($choice to 2) , ($location to "your brother's throne room, new delphine")]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>

<<if $choice is 1>>You remember the last time you walked these halls, when you were crowned in shadow and cloaked in light, your brother by your side. You carried a sword, golden and glimmering like your plot armor, a contrast to your brother’s dark armor and clothing; he must be the prince of shadow, making you light. Red stains your white clothes like an extended pomegranate metaphor, and you realize now that you drip with blood. Your father’s blood. The blood of your father stains this place, this hall-almost-a-non-denominational-cathedral larger/smaller than you remembered and expected but a monument nonetheless to the sins of your family and past. You were cast from this place to a world with buses and student loans when you belong here, <i>here</i> amongst your people, the commoners in need of light to your brother’s shadow, the commoners of the East Southeastern Unseelie Courts, the people of New Delphine. You are no longer a pariah but a conqueror, coming to on horseback before your brother’s — no — <i>your</i> throne. <<elseif $choice is 2>>The hall is <<if $pesisclass is "large">>smaller<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>larger<</if>> than you thought, and very fancy. It reminds you of pictures you saw of that one European building that was in the news for some reason. The one you did that presentation on in freshman year global culture class, the general ed one you took because it seemed easy and then turned out to be a paper-a-week nightmare. It’s a good place for a king, but you’d honestly just rather be off of this horse and back in Philadelphia. Finals are alarmingly soon, and you probably need to study for the math class you haven’t been to in a few months. Your mother nudges you and you look down upon your brother.<</if>> Your brother sits on a throne made of frozen starlight, all bright and glittery and translucent. He sprawls, his fancy velvet cloak in shades of midnight sprawling out of the seat of the throne and onto the ground in front of him. The rest of his clothes are the same insane black color that makes him seem a little 2d, and he has heterochromia where one eye is dark brown and the other the same blue you’d find on a husky that refuses to stop staring at you. Her wears a crown of jet, brilliant metal resting on his also perfectly roguishly coiffed hair. You adjust yours subconsciously. He puts a booted foot up on the armrest, thoughtfully stroking the kinda upsetting assortment of blonde-ish hairs that make up his pubey mustache and beard. “Well, well, brother! Blue eyes, white Oleander, you’re here at last. You’ve… heh well, you’ve certainly learned how to make an appearance. And you’ve activated my trap.” <span class = ilya>“Can I kill him now?”</span> comes an unfamiliar voice, a bored looking woman in mossy camo pants leaning on a pillar near the throne. <span class = ilya>She</span> shoulders an entire rifle. “No, no, not yet my <span class = ilya>Executioner</span>…” Your brother pauses for dramatic effect. “Let’s hear what he has to say first. I’ve missed you, <i>brother</i>.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|expo8]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Your mother squeezes your hand, murmuring: “No matter what happens next, remember that I love you both very much.” And then she steps forwards, throwing her cloak off dramatically. Your brother raises an eyebrow. “Hello <i>mother</i>,” he sneers, spitting a little. <span class = ilya>The Executioner</span> looks a little grossed out, wrinkling <span class = ilya>her</span> nose. “I thought I taught you <i>manners</i>, Lysander,” your mother replies cooly. “But no matter… you have humiliated me for the last time, boy king..! The nerve of children to go no-contact these days, after everything I have done for you, all the sacrifices I made for you and your father (RIP) and your brother… you should be grateful. You could at least call, Lysander, the phone goes both ways and I do miss the sound of your voice. I don’t even see you, except for when I have to come barging in here like some kind of… home invader. I’m your mother, Lysander, and honestly, what you’ve done with the place is so shameful… oh, if your father could see this, Lysander. You know what he would say. You know what he would say, Lysander, are you proud of yourself? I tried, I really did. I tried so hard to raise you right but since the prophecy… I suppose… The throne is yours no longer, for the prophecy has been completed and your brother – the <i>rightful</i> heir and king – shall be returned. By force or by the grace I gave you —I tried, I really did, I just wanted to be a good mother, Lysander—I wanted to be a good mother and take care of you both and look at what you have done! Give up the crown or else…” Lysander smirks, rising from his throne. You smirk in return, your brother striding across the raised dais from his throne to where you and your mother stand, the horse awkwardly perched on a step. He claps thrice, his claps echoing off the vaulted and ribbed ceiling. <<set _letsgetmurderedwithmama to random(1,2)>><<if _letsgetmurderedwithmama is 1>><span class = ilya>The Executioner </span>slinks slinkily out of the shadows, rifle held at <span class = ilya>her</span> hip. A twinge of fear turns your gut like a three day old taco. <span class = ilya>“Thought you’d never ask…” she</span> sneers, and then the entire hall erupts into sound as <span class = ilya>she</span> squeezes the trigger and fires the rifle not at you, no, but at your mother. She practically explodes, all of her brain matter and other bits and pieces goo interspersed with teeth and singed hair on the floor and the horse-jacket and your plot armor and your signature white sneakers. What remains twitches and jerks as though she were disapproving even in death. You throw up on the whole mess. Guess you’re an orphan now. “Sick,” your brother whispers. <span class = ilya>“My job here is done…”</span> says the <span class = ilya>Executioner</span>, returning to the shadows slinkily. <<set $mommurderer to "ilya">> <<elseif _letsgetmurderedwithmama is 2>>A woman seated beside your brother stands, shaking her head. She sighs loudly, Lysander turning sharply to raise his hands in apology, squeaking out: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to clap at you, I just thought <span class = ilya>The Executioner</span> would take care of it, but I really appreciate it, baby, I do. I won’t clap at you again, I promise.” She sighs again and unleashes a whooshing blast of wind magic, your mother’s head detaching swiftly from her shoulders and thudding to the ground. She looks rather offended to have been killed in this manner. But you suppose you’re an orphan now.<<set $mommurderer to "navy">> <</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|expo9]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You are left alone with your brother, who stares at your mother’s corpse. And then you. And then your mother’s corpse. And then you. And then he reaches into his pockets, fumbling for a moment while he pulls out a vape. The crackling sound and sickly sweet smell of strawberry cheesecake mix surprisingly well with the strange metallic scent of guts and brains and other gore and also the sound of the trickling of blood down the stairs. “That’s so fucking gross,” your brother says, wheezing a little bit as he hits his vape again. You’re inclined to believe him. But now, here and now, you need to be the prophesied prince of prophecy, you need to stand up to your mother’s murderer, you need to make your stand. “I am that fated prince of fate, brother. This is my destiny. I just- I don’t know what I’m doing?” “Heh. Hit your head, brother?” “I mean yeah? I got run over on my way here.” “That’s rough.” “I know. Then I woke up here and there’s prophecy – what am I supposed to do?” “So…” your brother steeples his hands. “You’re here to take the throne after all these years. You’re here to defeat me and claim what was yours by birthright as Prince of New Delphine, the rose quartz of the East Southeastern Courts.” “Okay, got it.” You clear your throat. “I’m here to defeat you, brother! I’m- actually, time-out, one moment- can’t we just rule jointly? Wouldn’t that fix the whole prophecy?” you gesture widely at everything around you. “Like there’d be shadow and light if I were just up there with you too.” Lysander looks thoughtfully at you for one moment before hitting his vape again, the little light blinking yellow. “Nah. My throne.” You sigh. Do you really want to do this? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Obviously|expo10][$choice to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<b>NO.</b>|expo10][$choice to 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>This is your fate. If your brother is too foolish to see it… so be it. “You’re evil, Lysander. Pure evil. You forced me to kill our father-” “Ah, yeah, about that, y-” “SILENCE!” you roar, your horse rearing dramatically probably because you yelled at him. “You forced me to kill our father and now our mother is dead and we are orphans! Because of you! I challenge you for the throne and our birthright, brother!” “Fine,” Lysander smirks, raising his chin defiantly. All three beard hairs glint in the light as he stands, the lights dimming around him Evil laughter echoes out, ringing off the cathedral walls. “Heh, I always wanted to do this.” He clears his throat, probably from all the vaping he does. “Good! GOOD! My <i>brother</i>. My dear brother, fated to strike me down in a duel of fates, a duel for the future of our kingdom, dark or light.” He spreads his arms wide, whispering. “Come now, brother. I have been preparing… strike me down! DO IT!” You have no weapon. Your bare hands will have to do as you almost fall but get off the horse and flex your knuckles. Lysander grins at you, his husky-pale-blue eye gleaming in the light. Some Prince of Shadows he is… You rear up, aiming a mighty punch at your brother’s scheming face. And you’re thrown across the room to the sound of girls laughing at you. <<elseif $choice is 2>>You have literally no beef with your brother. Sure, he was a dick growing up, but that’s just how siblings are. “Yeah, I don’t really want to do all of that,” you say. “Like I’m honored and all, but I just have more important things to be doing right now, honestly.” You turn to leave, the sound of your brother’s ostentatious cloak rustling behind you.”NO!” he shouts, but does not move, probably because of the horse and your mother’s body in the way. “You are <i>fated</i> for this, brother! I’ve been preparing for this day, you cannot just WALK AWAY!” “That’s what I’m doing though,” you reply over your shoulder. “I don’t want to be here so I’m going somewhere else.” “No. You are fated to stay.” “Nah.” “Yes, you are.” “No. I’m not.” “Yes, Oleander. You are.” “Are you gonna make me stay or..?” “Seriously?” Lysander flaps his dramatic cloak sleeves exasperatedly. “You really don’t want the throne? Even without the prophecy?” “That’s a lot of responsibility. I’m like twenty-something.” You shrug. “And monarchies are inherently bad. At least that’s what I heard on the internet. Not that the authors believe that monarchies should exist — they’re against them on the basis of the longstanding history of monarchy becoming empire and the human rights violations that can be perpetrated and excused by the monarchical system of governance — but that I’m making a point about ignorance and blindly following opinions you see perpetuated online. I’ve put no thought into this, I just heard monarchy and went ‘Oh that’s bad.’ without learning anything about your particular governance.” “I- what?” Lysander looks at you. “I wrote a whole speech. I mean- my finest eunuch wrote a whole speech. It’s-” he looks around. “It’s somewhere around here.” “Yeah, I’m just gonna go, if that’s fine?” “You walked in here-” You interrupt. “Rode. I rode in here. The horse is right there.” “Fine,” your brother snaps. “You <i>rode</i> in here for no throne, no kingdom? You would deny fate?” “I literally have finals.” “Well…” The smirk on your brother’s face tells you that he’s up to something. Or maybe he’s bluffing. That’s an option too, but knowing your brother (which you do well), he’s up to something. “I suppose access to our treasury’s current balance of 38,375 United States Dollars wouldn’t interest you then? As king… the funds would be yours to do as you see fit with…” Son of a bitch. A dead bitch. Whose blood is everywhere. You got exiled for as much but you presume the laws don’t apply when you’re the king. Damn. That money could pay off your student loan without interest, and interest you can – could have – asked your mom for. You turn around to see your brother’s sinister smile. “So what will it be, brother…? A life of paying 162-343 United States Dollars per month? Or the simple task of defeating me?” You flex your hands as your brother throws his head back and laughs, evilly. He clears his throat, probably from all the vaping he does. “Good! GOOD! My <i>brother</i>. My dear brother, fated to strike me down in a duel of fates, a duel for the future of our kingdom, dark or light.” He spreads his arms wide, whispering. “Come now, brother. I have been preparing… strike me down! DO IT!” You have no weapon, something you realize as you jog back towards your brother. Your bare hands will have to do as you almost fall but get off the horse and flex your knuckles. Lysander grins at you, his husky-pale-blue eye gleaming in the light. Some Prince of Shadows he is… You rear up, aiming a mighty punch at your brother’s scheming face. And you’re thrown across the room to the sound of girls laughing at you. <</if>> <<button [[OK.|expo11]]>><</button>>

After Harrow fumbles with the massive iron key for a while, she twists the lock open with a satisfying click and sends you on your way. “There you are. Remember, think of the box. Not outside of it. I know I do.” “Wait, what?” “Remember what I taught you. Bye.” You find yourself staring down someone's bedchambers. They look kind of lush. You realize there are LED lighting strips on the wall near the ceiling to create some red mood-lighting, which really sets the tone for this chapter. <<button [[OK.|clarizza intro]]>><</button>>

Wow, that was a really good time, as evidenced by Clarissa’s trembling legs and blushing cheeks. I mean, you just (humping motion) destroyed her shit. There were probably at least 48 pages of weird positions and stuff, but you couldn’t see it, because the screen faded to black. “Oh wow,” Clarissa laughs, starry-eyed and in friggin’ love. “That was so cool. Um. I’m in love with you,” she says. “I know,” you say, coolly. “Shit, that was so cool,” she whispers to herself. “Okay, haha. Just call me Cla-<i>rizz</i>-a, I guess. That was a good one, right?” “Yeah, it was really good,” you lie, lest you be unable to hit again later, once you’ve defeated your evil brother. “Anyway,” she says, heaving herself out of bed, but don’t worry, she’s fully clothed again. Her knees fall out from under herself, and she smacks face-first into the carpet on the ground. “I have to let you go through. Okay, give me a second.” She crawls on the ground on all fours towards the door, and pulls herself up with great difficulty, leaning herself on the mahogany and fumbling with a key that she pulls up from under a rug. The doors open, letting you through. “I’ll be fine in a minute,” Clarissa says as she sinks back to the floor, wheezing asthmatically but smiling all the same. “Okay, see you, Oleander. Good luck. Love you.” You step over her gracefully, readjusting your plot armor, and disappear into the next level. <<button [[CONTINUE|moreau 1][$location to "hallway"]]>><</button>>

"So what do you do for work?" “Oh, you know,” she says, gesturing broadly at nothing in particular, “This.” She fails to elaborate further.

"What do you know about the prophecy?" “Oh, the prophecy. The prophecy that prophesied your return. Haha, yeah. That prophecy.” Yeah, I don’t. I don’t know anything about it.”

"What can you tell me about my brother?" “He’s my boss. I mean, he signs my paychecks. And there’s benefits, haha.” “Benefits?” “Not like that. Like, uh, healthcare. And there’s dental.” You stare pointedly at her missing teeth. “Do you use your benefits?” “Sometimes. I get scared of scheduling the appointments.”

"Have you ever had a dream about me?" “Uhhhhh, no. I have crazy melatonin dreams, though. Usually weird ones where I can teleport. They give me anxiety.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” “Yeah,” she beams, nodding thoughtfully. “They can do anything.”

"Can I hit your vape?" “Why do you think I vape?” she asks, surprised. “You just look like you do.” Her hands fumble awkwardly for her vape, patting down the pockets of her shorts. “Yeah, I do. I just lose it a lot.” She turns out her pockets and one poor, desolate, and small-looking moth flies out. Clarissa grimaces shamefully in embarrassment. “I don’t have it on me. Sorry.”

"Are you single?" She looks embarrassed. “Yeah,” she says, flatly. “Yeah, I’m single.”

"Are you sweating?" She sweats, sweatily, in response. It might be the close proximity to a man taking her out. “Um, no,” she lies, while sweating

"Do you stare at everyone like that?" “Was I staring?” she asks, staring wide-eyed. You nod. “Sorry,” she says, now avoiding eye contact. “It’s okay,” you assure her. “I only noticed because I was staring too.” She giggles in shock, chewing on a finger grossly. “Oh.”

"So is your boy slash girl slash gender neutral friend gonna beat me up for this?" “Noooo,” she says, giggling while chewing on a finger grossly.

"Do you have a crush on anyone right now?" “Kinda,” she says, giggling while chewing on a finger grossly.

“He,” her mouth opens and closes a few times in shock, searching for the words as none come to. “He lets me hit his vape sometimes. That’s all, I swear.” “That’d better be all,” you feel your two blue eyes darken in seething jealousy. The rage grows within you, you just played 21 questions with this snake, and she has the audacity to hit your brother’s vape and kiss you? “Oleander! Oleander, calm down,” she cries, scraped knees trembling. Your anger is giant, shrinking the world beneath it, hiding what matters from your purview. You are the rightful heir to the throne of New Delphine, the salvation prophetic prophecy has been begging for for since whenever Lysander forced you to murder your father. You still aren’t really sure of when that happened. You are the light to the shadow, the sun the darkness quivers before, and with brilliance comes heat. Heat, your anger. Heat, red. Red like the LED-strip mood lighting in here, red like a strawberry cheesecake flavored DweebBar, red like the background of this chapter if the devs remembered to change it. The room seems to grow darker around you while your completely justified rage glows from within you with incandescent, burning light. “Please!” Clarissa shrieks, loud enough that you can just barely make her voice out beyond the blood that boils in your ears like rolling storm clouds. “It’s just a vape. Oleander, I love you. Calm down–for me!” For her. For her. You can feel the tumultuous twist of light and shadow fighting within you, begging to be released in <span class = ilya>Overwhelming Violence</span> that obliterates the kingdom, turn-based combat system be damned. You’re an alpha male, you won’t see what’s yours claimed by anyone else, especially not by sharing indirect kisses upon a DweebBar. You gaze down upon Clarissa, standing hugely and bigly despite being built like a stripper pole. God, you want her to climb that pole. No wait, you’re supposed to be really pissed off right now. But she’s staring up at you with big soggy eyes and little tiny crystal tears that pool at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill down her freckled cheeks. <i>For her,</i> you repeat the mantra in your head. <i>Lest I be unable to hit at a more appropriate and off-screen time.</i> With a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders roll, your jaw unclenches. You take her honestly kind of slick-with-spit fingers into your hands and wince before setting them upon the breastplate of your armor so that you don’t have to touch them. “Clarissa,” you breathe, as if she is the air in your lungs, your very powerful, non-asthmatic lungs, “Clarissa, are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She shakes her head and sobs. You feel like a monster, and look away shamefully, broodily. “You didn’t hurt me,” she says, crying, “I’m just so glad you’re back. I’m so glad you came back to me.” With this, you perk up, taking her into your long and gangly arms in an instant. “Of course I came back to you. I came back <i>for</i> you,” you assure her, pressing kiss after kiss into her golden hair. Damn, you two would make some really blonde babies. She cries happily, just a little bit, and nods, gulping in hiccups of air between quieting sobs. “Can we still kiss?” “Oh, totally,” you say, and you two begin to kiss really gross-style. Tongues licking tongues and everything, like I mean you’re really just. Going for it. Your tongue probes the gap where she’s missing teeth which I mean hey, why not, I guess. She grisps desperately at your plot armor, and you kiss her until your neck is sore, because again, you have to lean down really far to kiss her. This will probably affect the curvature of your spine in the future. <<button [[okay|romantsscene3]]>><</button>>

“How?” you whisper hoarsely, your plot armor having saved you from the worst of the fall but not the embarrassment rising crimson to your cheeks as you lay crumbled against the doors. Your brother has made his way across the hall to stand over you, one booted foot on your chest. “Seven layer forcefield burrito, <i>brother</i>...” he smirks. You’re getting outsmirked. The girls laugh again. And again. You’re getting really tired of getting laughed at. But you can’t get up, on account of your smirking brother’s boot leaving a bootprint on the chestplate of your plot armor. “Please, Lysander,” you whisper shakily. “Please. You’re embarrassing me in front of the hoes.” “If you want to be unembarrassed – if you truly want the throne and/or the royal imperial treasury’s bounty of 38,375 United States Dollars – you’ll have to defeat me, brother. And you can’t even touch me on account of my seven-layer forcefield burrito. Do you know how to get past that, dear brother?” “Uh. no?” “This is precisely why I’m going to tell you. No hero’s journey of self-discovery for you. Or maybe there is. I wasn’t paying enough attention in my high school literature classes not to inadvertently become part of the mounting literacy crisis.” He leans more onto your chestplate, the plot armor squishing you a little. “I am a man of peace, Oleander. My kingdom is the most peaceful in the entire empire. I don’t have a standing army, but I do have defenders. Surely, you are important enough in wherever you come from to understand.” “Yeah,” you lie cooly, smirking. “I understand…” “Then you’ll understand when I say that you’ll have to defeat my harem of evil women — they’re not really a harem because I am monogamous and in love with my beautiful girlfriend, and also I really didn’t appreciate you calling them the hoes, that’s rather reductive of you when considering they are each their own unique person with their own unique stories and characteristics — in order to dispel all seven layers of my forcefield magic created of the evil of this court, which is in turn influenced by the evil of these women — these things are allowed to be independent as there is always evil in good and good in evil and one’s lived experiences are dictated by their environment, and this is kinda an evil environment what with all the murder and backstabbing and threat of prophecy, but the choice to commit evil actions and to be evil, thus earning the moniker of “evil women”, are ultimately left up to each woman individually and well, some of them have decided that evil is the route they’re taking while others are evil by association with the evil women and the evil system they uphold. The important thing is that they have agency – women are allowed to be as nuanced in character form as women are in real life.” He pauses for a second, glancing over his shoulder at one of the women standing behind him. “Come and find me at the other end of the castle when you’re ready to DIE, Oleander. Not that I don’t believe that each of my harem could defeat you individually – it’s entirely likely because they’re all powerful in their own right. Not Mary-Sue characters, which in of itself is a stupid categorization unnecessarily cruel to female characters who are just doing the same thing as scores and scores of male characters that have done the same thing for centuries before but because of misogyny, you’ll see the most average female protagonist being labeled as such when their male counterparts receive none of the same criticisms – but both powerful and flawed. Though I suppose those flaws don’t matter, the authors aren’t saying “oOooOh look at how well I can write women”, and they’re certainly not “writing women like men” they’re just writing women. Women who could kick your ass and probably will a few times before you figure out there’s a gimmick.” “There’s seven of them?” “Yes, brother. Pay attention.” Lysander rolls his eyes. “And they have gimmicks?” “No, they’re well written. You really aren’t paying attention, Oleander. Let me make myself clear: THERE ARE SEVEN NUANCED BUT ULTIMATELY EVIL WOMEN WHO ARE GOING TO KICK. YOUR. ASS. FOR THE REST OF THIS GAME. THEY ARE EVIL OF THEIR OWN VOLITION OR ELSE EVIL BY ASSOCIATION WITH THE SYSTEMS THEY UPHOLD INTENTIONALLY OR UNINTENTIONALLY THROUGH THEIR ACTIONS AND INACTIONS. YOU WILL NEED TO DEFEAT ALL OF THEM IN ORDER TO BE ABLE TO DEFEAT ME AND CLAIM THE THRONE AND/OR ENOUGH MONEY TO PAY OFF YOUR STUDENT LOANS.” “Oh okay,” you say. “Also just to be clear – harem is a genre chosen specifically for humorous effect and also for increasing the number of genre tags the authors could slap on this for a potentially larger audience to experience, because this is certainly an Experience to be experienced and also in being an experience that is wholly unique thus becomes legally distinct from every single other Noun of Noun and Noun book that exists. Also while I, personally, am monogamous, there’s nothing wrong with not being or wanting to be monogamous and I would like to clarify as much and also clarify that my girlfriend and I are monogamous because despite them not being a harem, I did just call my nuanced-but-ultimately evil women defenders a harem for the sake of a potentially higher CTR percentage. Okay. Thanks, bye!” “Wait,” you say weakly, still thinking about how aware Lysander seems to be of his surroundings. The Veil and also the fourth wall are a little weak here. If you listen closely, the music becomes nearly diegetic but doesn’t really match the whole vibe of this place or story, like a 2010s club banger heard down a very dank and spooky alleyway filled with broken glass and rusty needles and kidnappers waiting to kidnap you and change the genre to horror or some other, eviller 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖘𝖞 kind of game. Your brother turns, sneering. “What? Do you not understand something I just said? I thought I over-explained it really well.” “Where am I going to find these women?” Lysander shrugs. “Around. Also what size shoe are you? Those look sick and I want them.” “I’m a $pesis.” <<if $pesisclass is "small">>“Oh that’s. Oof. That’s too small. Keep ‘em.”<<elseif $pesisclass is "large">> “Damn. Same size as me. I’ll be taking those, thanks.” and then he stoops down to remove your shoes, just pulling them straight off your feet and leaving you in your slightly damp athletic sport socks with a hole in the toe.<</if>> And then he hits his vape and walks away dramatically in a strawberry-cheesecake scented cloud, leaving you alone in the grand hall with only the ability to move forwards – you tried but the doors out are broken and you really don't want to defenestrate yourself at the moment – and face these seven nuanced but ultimately evil women who have been promised to kick your ass. And also both of your parents are dead. <<if $pesisclass is "large">>And you don’t even have shoes anymore, just slightly musty and damp athletic sport socks with a hole in the toe.<</if>> All for the promise of 38,375 United States Dollars and/or a throne to a kingdom that you didn’t know existed like a few hours ago. <<button [[OK.|ilya1]]>><</button>>

The first thing you notice as you enter this room is that it smells like a garden supply store, presumably because, as you can see with your eyes as the light through the glass domed ceiling beams straight down upon you, it is a greenhouse. The smell of the clinic dissipates, antiseptic traded for dirt, rubbing alcohol traded for that kind of refreshing smell of ground water being cycled through a hose or sprinkler somewhere. Damn, you could really go for a drink of ice cold hose water right now. It hits spots previously unknown to man, especially on a hot summer’s day. Enough of that, though. You couldn’t stop for refreshments right now anyhow; It isn’t safe here. The second thing you notice, rearing your head up like a gangly blonde gazelle or perhaps antelope, is that you suddenly feel as though you are being hunted for sport. Your chest seizes, balling tight like a fist. Your breathing shallows, laboring against your ribcage. The gentle trickle of a fountain calls you nearer and nearer, your footsteps rustling amongst foliage surrounding stone walkway. With every rustle your fear betrays itself, betrays you, sends you searching over your shoulder for whatever terrible thing could be following you, tracking you, hunting you down. What could make you, son born to midnight’s blue blood and dawn’s singing promise, cower? What could make prey of you, Prince Oleander, he who scrunched his eyes closed in wait for metal beast and planned to bear its gritted metal teeth against his mortal flesh? You have your answer, as the sky of your blue gaze settles upon her. There, lounging contentedly in a folded-out lawn chair. There, hair woven into a wreath of flowers nestled upon her head. There, the ambassador, Igraine, sizing you up like you are a slutty little pool boy, and she, the filler-injected house wife whose husband stopped being able to get it up years ago. And also her lesbian sister, Isolde. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|i22]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

They wear the same face, two of a kind, though whereas Igraine sits scrawling idly or perhaps spying on you past her journal, Isolde lays flat to her stomach, hands in the dirt, drawing a small moat around a newly-planted sprout. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii~♥️,” chimes Igraine with a slutty amount of i’s, kicking her feet excitedly. “Hello, Igraine, Isolde,” you nod, holding your hand to your heart as you begin to develop chest pains. Igraine smacks the cover of her journal closed with an indignant pout, tapping the hard cover with a sparkling glitter pen. “How did you know our names already?” “It was in the title card,” says Isolde in an even, steady voice. She does not bother looking at you. “Ugh. That’s so fucking rude.” Igraine stands from her orange and white lawn chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress in irritation. “I had our introductions all planned, and now–” “It’s alright, Igraine. It saves the authors on word count if he already knows,” Isolde assures her, turning her head to look at her sister. She still has not turned her gaze upon you. You think she might even be going out of her way to avoid doing so. Igraine sighs heavily, taking in a deep breath just as soon as she does so. She closes her eyes and folds her hands, mumbling a mantra to herself. “I’m grateful all of the time,” she says, and invisible weight is set free from her shoulders. “You’re right, Isolde. Thank you, I love you.” Isolde nods. “I love you, too,” she says, and turns back to her plant. Now left under the full force of Igraine’s scrutiny, you suddenly wish that Isolde and the plant did not seem to be in their own little world. “Uh. Hi,” you say as she steps closer, her tiny shoes clipping on the hard stone. “Is this what they’re calling a Prince of Shadow these days?” she asks, circling around you not unlike a small vulture. “Uh,” you hold up your hands, wiggling your fingers like someone else with long creepy witch fingers did a lot. “Prince of Light, actually.” “I suppose you <i>do</i> look hunky in your plot armor,” she says, mostly for her own benefit. You can’t be sure she cares much for anything you’re saying right now. “I like the look of him.” That felt more offensive than a normal compliment. “Oh,” she tsks. “But his butt is kinda flat.” Isolde, nose-to-nose with her sprout, peeks up–at her sister. She has an uncanny knack for keeping you out of her peripheral. “He meets your height requirements,” she offers. “I suppose he does,” Igraine considers, tapping her jaw with her glitter pen as she stares at you in quiet consideration. “Can you read?” she asks. You snap to attention. Something about this tiny woman strikes the fear of god into your heart. “Y–Yes,” you stutter. “Yes ma’am,” you finish, hoping to save yourself from whatever fresh hell this is. “Ma’am won’t be necessary. You’re educated? And tall? You eat healthily? Have you addressed any long-standing issues you have with your mother? Are you vain? Can you learn humility? If I wanted you to meet my father, how would you react? My mother? What do you think about Isolde so far? Are you so entrenched in your own ideas of masculinity that it verges on toxicity, or can you appreciate the other exploits that life has to offer? Are you well-traveled? What’s your shoe size? Can you name three things about me that aren’t about the way that I look? Are you able to spend time with another human being without needing to be entertained by something that takes you outside of the present moment? Do you think I’m pretty? How often do you shave your face? Do you change into a fresh pair of underwear every single day, without fail? When you’re standing in the shower, do you wash your legs and feet, or do you believe that the running water and soap runoff will clean them sufficiently for you?” Whatever chest pains you were developing before have turned into heart palpitations. You salute her, two fingers to your brow, and your mouth moves of its own accord. You are in the fucking trenches out here. “I’m in college. I’m above average height. I eat at a cafeteria. My mother died recently. If I’m vain I am usually humbled really quickly. I would meet your dad, I guess. I would meet your mom but if she’s anything like you I would be scared. I think that Isolde is really good at not looking at me. I’m a women enjoyer. I traveled here from like, Philadelphia, and a walk and a horse ride two miles that way. I’m a size $pesis. Three things about you, you’re scary, you’re scaring me, you really know what you want I guess. I don’t even have my earbuds here. If I said you weren’t pretty I think I’d be dead right now. I am always clean-shaven, no pubestache here. I change my underwear every day, but I can’t guarantee that the underwear is always fresh. I have to wash my feet thoroughly, so that I can keep my signature white sneakers clean and in good condition. I’m kind of a sneakerhead. Ma’am. Ambassador…. Ma’ambassador.” Bugs and birds, the trickling fountain, even your beating heart have all stopped. You fear breathing, loathe the idea of breaking the silence as you wait in the silence of the greenhouse for your judgement day, your reckoning at the hands of a small woman, a woman who watches, stone-faced, one hand holding a journal with hearts on the cover of it, the other keeping tight grip of a sparkly pink glitter pen. She could kill you with that glitter pen if you’ve wronged her in any way, you can feel this in your bones. After an excruciatingly long pause, Isolde is the first to break the silence: “He’s okay,” she says. “eeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Igraine squeals, screams even, in a register so high you’re shocked it doesn’t crack the glass ceilings above, her shrill voice echoing from the walls around you. “Thank you, Isolde! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Okay, okay–” she starts, frantically moving to set her beloved journal down in her plastic chair, before she returns to you, closer than before, shoving the back of her hand into your face. “You don’t have to call me ambassador. You can call me Igraine. Or you can call me yours! ♥️” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|i23]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Wait, what?” you ask, startled. Her hand is in your face though, and something in your gut tells you that if you do not kiss it, she will strike you down where you stand. You comply quickly, before stepping back, retreating in fear and confusion. “Yeah! You honestly check all of my boxes, plus you’re suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuper cute, so I just think we should give it a try now! ♥️Plus, if you’re going to become king, you’ll need a queen, and you don’t seem to know much about everything going on around you. So who better to be by your side than a diplomatic ambassador?! Eeeeeee! We’re gonna power couple it up so well. ♥️” Slowly, ominously from the background, Isolde raises to her feet. It is in this moment you realize that she’s taller than her sister. Her long hair covers her face, eyes peeking out through the dark brown curtain. They stare directly at you. “Igraine…” she says. “He isn’t going to be king yet. He hasn’t even defeated us.” “Oh, shit,” Igraine sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t want to fight him now! Look how freaking kyUTE he is! ♥️I’m practically swooning here. You won’t make me fight my future husband, will you, Isolde?” She looks upwards toward her sister with a pout. She must be the younger of the two. Isolde shakes her head, hair freeing itself from her face. When she gazes upon her sister, her expression is pleasant. Unlike the pure, unadulterated hatred you felt in her eyes mere seconds prior. “I suppose,” she smiles. The smile does not last long. She turns to you head-on. While she is shorter than you are, because you only had some really tall height options to pick from, her presence is immense. “Very well then, Oleander. Your name is shared with that of <i>Nerium oleander</i>, did you know that?” She turns to pace, her hands behind her back. “My sister seems to be enamoured with you. This is… acceptable, but I would like to make certain of her decision. Pay attention.” <<button [[okay.|i24]]>><</button>>

<h1><i>“Isoetes</i></h1> From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia <b><i>Isoetes</i></b>, commonly known as the <b>quillworts</b>, is a genus of lycopod. It is the only living genus in the family Isoetaceae and order Isoetales. As of 2016, there were about 200 recognized species,<sup>[1]</sup> with a cosmopolitan distribution mostly in aquatic habitats but with the individual species often scarce to rare. Species virtually identical to modern quillworts have existed since the Jurassic epoch,<sup>[2]</sup> though the timing of the origin of modern <i>Isoetes</i> is subject to considerable uncertainty.<sup>[3]</sup> The name of the genus may also be spelled <i>Isoëtes</i>. The diaeresis (two dots over the e) indicates that the o and the e are to be pronounced in two distinct syllables. Including this in print is optional; either spelling (<i>Isoetes</i> or <i>Isoëtes</i>) is correct.<sup>[4]</sup> <h2>Description</h2> Quillworts are mostly aquatic or semi-aquatic in clear ponds and slow-moving streams, though several (e.g. <i>I. butleri</i>, <i>I. histrix</i> and <i>I. nuttallii</i>) grow on wet ground that dries out in the summer. The quillworts are spore-producing plants and highly reliant on water dispersion. Quillworts have different ways to spread their spores based on the environment. Quillwort leaves are hollow and quill-like, with a minute ligule at the base of the upper surface.<sup>[5]: 7</sup> arising from a central corm. The sporangia are sunk deeply in the leaf bases. Each leaf will either have many small spores or fewer large spores. Both types of leaf are found on each plant.<sup>[6]</sup> Each leaf is narrow, 2–20 centimetres (0.8–8 in) long (exceptionally up to 100 cm or 40 in) and 0.5–3.0 mm (0.02–0.12 in) wide; they can be either evergreen, winter deciduous, or dry-season deciduous. Only 4% of total biomass, the tips of the leaves, is chlorophyllous.<sup>[7]</sup> The roots broaden to a swollen base up to 5 mm (0.2 in) wide where they attach in clusters to a bulb-like, underground rhizome characteristic of most quillwort species, though a few (e.g. <i>I. tegetiformans</i>) form spreading mats. This swollen base also contains male and female sporangia, protected by a thin, transparent covering (<i>velum</i>), which is used diagnostically to help identify quillwort species. They are heterosporous. Quillwort species are very difficult to distinguish by general appearance. The best way to identify them is by examining their megaspores under a microscope. Moreover, habitat, texture, spore size, and velum provide features that distinguish Isoëtes taxa.<sup>[8]</sup> They also possess a vestigial form of secondary growth in the basal portions of its cormlike stem, an indication that they evolved from larger ancestors.<sup>[9]</sup> <h2>Biochemistry and genetics</h2> Quillworts use crassulacean acid metabolism (CAM) for carbon fixation. Some aquatic species do not have stomata and the leaves have a thick cuticle which prevents CO<sub>2</sub> uptake, a task that is performed by their hollow roots instead, which absorb CO<sub>2</sub> from the sediment.<sup>[10]</sup> This has been studied extensively in <i>Isoetes andicola.</i><sup>[7]</sup> CAM is normally considered an adaptation to life in arid environments to prevent water loss with the plants opening their stomata at night rather than in the heat of the day. This allows CO<sub>2</sub> to enter and minimises water loss. As mostly submerged aquatic plants, quillworts do not lack water and the use of CAM is considered to avoid competition with other aquatic plants for CO<sub>2</sub> during daytime.<sup>[11]</sup> The first detailed quillwort genome sequence, of <i>I. taiwanensis</i>,<sup>[12]</sup> showed that there were differences from CAM in terrestrial plants. CAM involves the enzyme phosphoenolpyruvate carboxylase (PEPC) and plants have two forms of the enzyme. One is normally involved in photosynthesis and the other in central metabolism. From the genome sequence, it appears that in quillworts, both forms are involved in photosynthesis. In addition, circadian expression of key CAM pathway genes peaked at different times of day than in angiosperms.<sup>[13]</sup> These fundamental differences in biochemistry suggest that CAM in quillworts is probably another example of convergent evolution of CAM during the more than 300 million years since the genus diverged from other plants. However, they may also be because of differences between life in water and in the air.<sup>[12]</sup> The genome sequence also provided two insights into its structure. First, genes and repeated non-coding regions were fairly evenly distributed across all the chromosomes. This is similar to genomes of other non-seed plants, but different from the seed plants (angiosperms) where there are distinctly more genes at the ends of chromosomes. Secondly, there was also evidence that the whole genome had been duplicated in the ancient past.<sup>[12]</sup> There are species that switch from CAM to C3 photosynthesis when they go from being submerged in water to living terrestrially, and develop stomata on their leaves. Some species (<i>I. palmeri</i>, <i>I. lechleri</i> and <i>I. karsteni</i>), even under aerial conditions, rarely form stomata, and in some cases (<i>I. triquetra</i> and <i>I. andina</i>) appear to have completely lost the ability to produce stomata.<sup>[14]</sup> <h2>Reproduction</h2> <h3>Overview</h3> Like all land plants, <i>Isoetes</i> undergoes an alternation of generations between a diploid sporophyte stage and a sexual haploid gametophyte stage. However, the dominance of one stage over the other has shifted over time. The development of vascular tissue and subsequent diversification of land plants coincides with the increased dominance of the sporophyte and reduction of the gametophyte. <i>Isoetes</i>, as members of the Lycopodiopsida class, are part of the oldest extant lineage that reflects this shift to a sporophyte dominant lifecycle. In closely related lineages, such as the extinct <i>Lepidodendron</i>, spores were dispersed by the sporophyte through large collections of sporangia called strobili for wind-based spore dispersal.<sup>[15]</sup> However, <i>Isoetes</i> are small heterosporous semi-aquatic plants, with different reproductive needs and challenges than large tree-like land plants. <h3>Description</h3> Like the rest of the Lycopodiopsida class, <i>Isoetes</i> reproduces with spores.<sup>[16]</sup> Among the lycophytes, both <i>Isoetes</i> and the Selaginellaceae (spikemosses) are heterosporous, while the remaining lycophyte family Lycopodiaceae (clubmosses) is homosporous.<sup>[17]</sup> As heterosporous plants, fertile Isoetes sporophytes produce megaspores and microspores, which develop in the megasporangia and microsporangia.<sup>[18]</sup> These spores are highly ornate and are the primary way by which species are identified, although no one functional purpose of the intricate surface patterns is agreed upon.<sup>[19]</sup> The megasporangia occur within the outermost microphylls (single-veined leaves) of the plant while the microsporangia are found in the innermost microphylls.<sup>[20]</sup> This pattern of development is hypothesized to improve the dispersal of the heavier megaspore.<sup>[16]</sup> These spores then germinate and divide into mega- and micro- gametophytes.<sup>[18][21][22]</sup> The microgametophytes have antheridia, which in turn produce sperm.<sup>[22]</sup> The megagametophytes have archegonia, which produce egg cells.<sup>[22]</sup> Fertilization takes place when the motile sperm from a microgametophyte locates the archegonia of a megagametophyte and swims inside to fertilize the egg. Outside of heterospory, a distinguishing feature of <i>Isoetes</i> (and <i>Selaginella</i>) from other pteridophytes, is that their gametophytes grow inside the spores.<sup>[18][22][20]</sup> This means that the gametophytes never leave the protection of the spore that disperses them, cracking the perispore (the outer layer of the spore) just enough to allow the passage of gametes. This is fundamentally different from ferns, where the gametophyte is a photosynthetic plant exposed to the elements of its environment. However, containment creates a separate problem for Isoetes, which is that the gametophytes have no way to acquire energy on their own. Isoetes sporophytes solve this problem by provisioning starches and other nutrients to the spores as an energy reserve for the eventual gametophytes.<sup>[22][23]</sup> Although not a homologous process, this provisioning is somewhat analogous to other modes of offspring resource investment in seed-plants, such as fruits and seeds. The extent to which resources provisioned to the megaspore also support the growth of the new sporophyte is unknown in Isoetes. <h3>Dispersal</h3> Spore dispersal occurs primarily in water (hydrochory) but may also occur via adherence to animals (zoochory) and as a result of ingestion (endozoochory).<sup>[16][24]</sup> These are among the reasons suggested for the ornamentations of the spore, with some authors demonstrating that certain patterns seem well-adapted for sticking to relevant animals like waterfowl.<sup>[24]</sup> Another critical element of dispersal is the observation that in some species of <i>Isoetes</i>, the outer coat of megaspores have pockets that trap microspores, a condition known as synaptospory.<sup>[24][25]</sup> Typically, heterospory means that colonization and long-dispersal are more difficult due to the fact that a single spore cannot grow a bisexual gametophyte and thus cannot establish a new population from a single spore as can happen in homosporous ferns.<sup>[26]</sup> <i>Isoetes</i> may mitigate this issue via microspores stuck to megaspores, greatly increasing the possibility of successful fertilization upon dispersal.<sup>[24][25]</sup> <h2>Taxonomy</h2> Compared to other genera, <i>Isoetes</i> is poorly known. The first critical monograph on their taxonomy, written by Norma Etta Pfeiffer, was published in 1922 and remained a standard reference into the twenty-first century.<sup>[27][28]</sup> Even after studies with cytology, scanning electron microscopy, and chromatography, species are difficult to identify and their phylogeny is disputed. Vegetative characteristics commonly used to distinguish other genera, such as leaf length, rigidity, color, or shape are variable and depend on the habitat. Most classification systems for <i>Isoetes</i> rely on spore characteristics, which make species identification nearly impossible without microscopy.<sup>[29]</sup> Some botanists split the genus, separating two South American species into the genus <i>Stylites</i>, although molecular data place these species among other species of Isoetes, so that <i>Stylites</i> does not warrant taxonomic recognition.<sup>[30]</sup> <h3>Evolution</h3> The earliest fossil that has been assigned to the genus is <i>†Isoetes beestonii</i> from the latest Permian<sup>[31]</sup> of New South Wales, Australia, around 252 million years ago.<sup>[32]</sup> However, the relationships of pre-Jurassic isoetaleans to modern <i>Isotetes</i> have been regarded as unclear by other authors.<sup>[2]</sup> <i>Isoetites rolandii</i> from the Late Jurassic of North America has been described as the "earliest clear example of a isoetalean lycopsid containing all the major features uniting modern <i>Isoetes</i>", including the loss of the elongated stem and vegetative leaves. Based on this, it has been stated that "the overall morphology of <i>Isoetes</i> appears to have persisted virtually unchanged since at least the Jurassic".<sup>[2]</sup> The timing of the origin of the crown group is uncertain. Wood <i>et al</i> (2020) asserted there to be no morphological features that define the major clades within <i>Isoetes</i>, and no fossils are known that can be definitively assigned to the crown group.<sup>[2]</sup> While Wood <i>et al.</i> suggested a young origin dating to the early Cenozoic based on molecular clock estimates<sup>[2]</sup>, the results were questioned by Wikström <i>et al.</i> (2023) who regarded the molecular clock as providing no firm evidence for the origin time of the genus, which could date to the Mesozoic or even the late Paleozoic, depending on the calibration method used.<sup>[3]</sup> <h3>Extant species</h3> As of November 2019, <i>Plants of the World Online</i> accepted the following extant species:<sup>[33]</sup> <ul><li><i>I. abyssinica</i> <span class =plont> Chiov.</span></li> <li><i>I. acadiensis</i> <span class =plont>Kott</span></li> <li><i>I. aemulans</i> <span class =plont>J.P.Roux</span></li> <li><i>I. aequinoctialis</i> <span class =plont>Welw. ex A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. alcalophila</i> <span class =plont>S.Halloy</span></li> <li><i>I. alpina</i> <span class =plont>Kirk</span></li> <li><i>I. alstonii</i> <span class =plont>C.F.Reed & Verdc.</span></li> <li><i>I. amazonica</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. anatolica</i> <span class =plont>Prada & Rolleri</span></li> <li><i>I. andicola</i> <span class =plont>Amstutz) L.D.Gómez</span></li> <li><i>I. andina</i> <span class =plont>Spruce ex Hook.</span></li> <li><i>I. appalachiana</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. araucaniana</i> <span class =plont>Macluf & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. asiatica</i> <span class =plont>(Makino) Makino</span></li> <li><i>I. attenuata</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. australis</i> <span class =plont>S.Williams</span></li> <li><i>I. azorica</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. baculata</i> <span class =plont>Hickey & H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. biafrana</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. bischlerae</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. bolanderi</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. boliviensis</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. boomii</i> <span class =plont>Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. boryana</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. boyacensis</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. bradei</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. brasiliensis</i><span class =plont> H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. brevicula</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. butleri</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. cangae</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira, Salino & Stützel</span></li> <li><i>I. capensis</i></li> <li><i>I. caroli</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. caroliniana</i> <span class =plont>(A.A.Eaton) Luebke</span> is regarded by <i>Plants of the World Online</i> as a synonym of <i>I. valida</i> but other sources treat it as a valid species<sup>[34]</sup></li> <li><i>I. chubutiana</i> <span class =plont>Hickey, Macluf & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. coromandelina</i> <span class =plont>L.f.</span></li> <li><i>I. creussensis</i> <span class =plont>Lazare & S.Riba</span></li> <li><i>I. cristata</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. cubana</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. delilei</i> <span class =plont>(Bory) Rothm.</span></li> <li><i>I. dispora</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. dixitii</i> <span class =plont>Shende</span></li> <li><i>I. drummondii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. durieui</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. echinospora</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. ecuadoriensis</i> <span class =plont>Aspl.</span></li> <li><i>I. ekmanii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. elatior</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. eludens</i> <span class =plont>J.P.Roux, Hopper & Rhian J.Sm.</span></li> <li><i>I. engelmannii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. escondidensis</i> <span class =plont>S.Halloy</span></li> <li><i>I. eshbaughii</i> <span class =plont>Hickey & H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. flaccida</i> <span class =plont>Shuttlew.</span></li> <li><i>I. fluitans</i> <span class =plont>M.I.Romero</span></li> <li><i>I. fuliginosa</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. fuscomarginata</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. gardneriana</i> <span class =plont>Kunze</span></li> <li><i>I. georgiana</i> <span class =plont>Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. giessii</i> <span class =plont>Launert</span></li> <li><i>I. gigantea</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. graniticola</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. gunnii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. gymnocarpa</i> <span class =plont>(Gennari) A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. habbemensis</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. hallasanensis</i> <span class =plont>H.K.Choi, Ch.Kim & J.Jung</span></li> <li><i>I. haussknechtii</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Greuter</span></li> <li><i>I. hawaiiensis</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor & W.H.Wagner</span></li> <li><i>I. heldreichii</i> <span class =plont>Wettst.</span></li> <li><i>I. hemivelata</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. herzogii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. hewitsonii</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. hieronymi</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. histrix</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. hopei</i> <span class =plont>J.R.Croft</span></li> <li><i>I. howellii</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. humilior</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. hypsophila</i> <span class =plont>Hand.-Mazz.</span></li> <li><i>I. inflata</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. jaegeri</i> <span class =plont>Pitot</span></li> <li><i>I. jamaicensis</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. japonica</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. jejuensis</i> <span class =plont>H.K.Choi, Ch.Kim & J.Jung</span></li> <li><i>I. junciformis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. karstenii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. killipii</i> <span class =plont>C.V.Morton</span></li> <li><i>I. kirkii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. labri-draconis</i> <span class =plont>N.R.Crouch</span></li> <li><i>I. lacustris</i> <span class =plont>L.</span></li> <li><i>I. laosiensis</i> <span class =plont>C.Kim & H.K.Choi</span></li> <li><i>I. lechleri</i> <span class =plont>Mett.</span></li> <li><i>I. libanotica</i> <span class =plont>Musselman, Bolin & R.D.Bray</span></li> <li><i>I. lithophila</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span></li> <li><i>. longissima</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. louisianensis</i> <span class =plont>Thieret</span></li> <li><i>I. luetzelburgii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. macrospora</i></li> <li><i>I. malinverniana</i> <span class =plont>Ces. & De Not.</span></li> <li><i>I. maritima</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span> – maritime quillwort</li> <li><i>I. martii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. mattaponica</i> <span class =plont>Musselman & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. maxima</i> <span class =plont>Hickey, Macluf & Link-Pérez</span></li> <li><i>I. melanopoda</i> <span class =plont>J.Gay & Durieu</span> (<i>I. virginica</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span>)</li> <li><i>I. melanospora</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. melanotheca</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. mexicana</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span> (syn. <i>Isoetes montezumae</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span>)</li> <li><i>I. microvela</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. minima</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. mississippiensis</i> <span class =plont>S.W.Leonard, <i>et al.</i></span></li> <li><i>I. mongerensis</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. montana</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. mourabaptistae</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira,<i>et al.</i></span></li> <li><i>I. muelleri</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. naipiana</i> <span class =plont>P.G.Windisch, Lorscheitt. & Nervo</span></li> <li><i>I. nana</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira</span></li> <li><i>I. neoguineensis</i></li> <li><i>I. nigritiana</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. nigroreticulata</i> <span class =plont>Verdc.</span></li> <li><i>I. novogranadensis</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. nuttallii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. occidentalis</i> <span class =plont>L.F.Hend.</span></li> <li><i>I. olympica</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. orcuttii</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. organensis</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. orientalis</i> <span class =plont>Hong Liu & Q.F.Wang</span></li> <li><i>I. ovata</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span></li> <li><i>I. pallida</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. palmeri</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. panamensis</i> <span class =plont>Maxon & C.V.Morton</span></li> <li><i>I. parvula</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. pedersenii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs ex E.I.Meza & Macluf</span></li> <li><i>I. perralderiana</i> <span class =plont>Durieu & Letourn. ex Milde</span></li> <li><i>I. perrieriana</i><span class =plont> Iversen</span></li> <li><i>I. philippinensis</i> <span class =plont>Merr. & L.M.Perry</span></li> <li><i>I. phrygia</i> <span class =plont>Hausskn.</span></li> <li><i>I. piedmontana</i> <span class =plont>(N.Pfeiff.) C.F.Reed</span></li> <li><i>I. pitotii</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. precocia</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. pringlei</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span></li> <li><i>I. prototypus</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & Goltz</span></li> <li><i>I. pseudojaponica</i> <span class =plont>M.Takamiya, Mits.Watan. & K.Ono</span></li> <li><i>I. pusilla</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. quiririensis</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira & Labiak</span></li> <li><i>I. ramboi</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. riparia</i> <span class =plont>Engelm. ex A.Braun</span> (syn <i>I. hyemalis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span>)</li> <li><i>I. sabatina</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Azzella</span></li> <li><i>I. saccharata</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. sahyadrii</i> <span class =plont>Mahab.</span></li> <li><i>I. saracochensis</i><span class =plont> Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. savatieri</i><span class =plont> Franch.</span></li> <li><i>I. schweinfurthii</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. sehnemii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. septentrionalis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. serracarajensis</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira, Salino & Stützel</span></li> <li><i>I. setacea</i> <span class =plont>Lam.</span></li> <li><i>I. sinensis</i> <span class =plont>T.C.Palmer</span> (synonym <i>I. coreana</i> <span class =plont>Y.H.Chung & H.K.Choi)</span></li> <li><i>I. smithii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. spannagelii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. spinulospora</i> <span class =plont>C.Jermy & Schelpe</span></li> <li><i>I. stellenbossiensis</i> <span class =plont>A.V.Duthie</span></li> <li><i>I. stephanseniae</i> <span class =plont>A.V.Duthie</span></li> <li><i>I. stevensii</i> <span class =plont>J.R.Croft</span></li> <li><i>I. storkii</i> <span class =plont>T.C.Palmer</span></li> <li><i>I. taiwanensis</i> <span class =plont>De Vol</span></li> <li><i>I. tamaulipana</i> <span class =plont>Mora-Olivo, A.Mend. & Mart.-Aval.</span></li> <li><i>I. tegetiformans</i> <span class =plont>Rury</span></li> <li><i>I. tenella</i> <span class =plont>Léman ex Desv.</span></li> <li><i>I. tennesseensis</i> <span class =plont>Luebke & Budke</span></li> <li><i>I. tenuifolia</i> <span class =plont>Jermy</span></li> <li><i>I. tenuissima</i> <span class =plont>Boreau</span></li> <li><i>I. texana</i> <span class =plont>Singhurst, Rushing & W.C.Holmes</span></li> <li><i>I. todaroana</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Raimondo</span></li> <li><i>I. toximontana</i> <span class =plont>Musselman & J.P.Roux</span></li> <li><i>I. transvaalensis</i> <span class =plont>C.Jermy & Schelpe</span></li> <li><i>I. triangula</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. tripus</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. truncata</i> <span class =plont>Clute</span></li> <li><i>I. tuckermanii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun ex Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. tuerckheimii</i> <span class =plont>Brause</span></li> <li><i>I. udupiensis</i> <span class =plont>P.K.Shukla, G.K.Srivast., S.K.Shukla & P.K.Rajagopal</span></li> <li><i>I. ulei</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. valida</i> <span class =plont>Clute</span></li> <li><i>I. vanensis</i> <span class =plont>M.Keskin & G.Zare</span></li> <li><i>I. vermiculata</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. viridimontana</i> <span class =plont>M.A.Rosenthal & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. weberi</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. welwitschii</i> <span class =plont>A.Br. ex Kuhn</span></li> <li><i>I. wormaldii</i> <span class =plont>Sim</span></li> <li><i>I. yunguiensis</i> <span class =plont>Q.F.Wang & W.C.Taylor</span></li></ul> Many species, such as the Louisiana quillwort and the mat-forming quillwort, are endangered species. Several species of <i>Isoetes</i> are commonly called <b>Merlin's grass</b>, especially <i>I. lacustris</i>, but also the endangered species <i>I. tegetiformans.</i> <h3>Hybrids</h3> <ul><li><i>I. × altonharvillii</i> <span class =plont>Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × brittonii</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × bruntonii</i> <span class =plont>Knepper & Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × carltaylorii</i> <span class =plont>Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × dodgei</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. × eatonii</i> <span class =plont>R.Dodge</span> – Eaton's quillwort</li> <li><i>I. × echtuckerii</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. × fairbrothersii</i> <span class =plont>J.D.Montgom. & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × foveolata</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. × gopalkrishnae</i> <span class =plont>S.K.Singh, P.K.Shukla & N.K.Dubey</span></li> <li><i>I. × harveyi</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span> (syn. <i>I. × heterospora</i> <span class =plont>Eaton</span>)</li> <li><i>I. × herb-wagneri</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × hickeyi</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor & Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. × jeffreyi</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. × marensis</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. × michinokuana</i> <span class =plont>M.Takamiya, Mits.Watan. & K.Ono</span></li> <li><i>I. × novae-angliae</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. × paratunica</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt., Mochalova & A.A.Bobrov</span></li> <li><i>I. × pseudotruncata</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> </ul> <h3>Fossil species</h3> <ul><li><i>†Isoetes beestonii</i> <span class =plont>Retallack</span> (Permian, Australia)<sup>[32][31]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes bulbiformis</i> <span class =plont>Drinnan</span> (Cretaceous, Australia)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†lsoetes ermayinensis</i> <span class =plont>Wang</span> (Triassic, China)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes gramineoides</i> <span class =plont>Bock</span> (Triassic, US)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes hillii</i> <span class =plont>D.M. Britton</span> (Miocene, Tasmania)<sup>[36][37]</sup></li></ul> (Wikimedia Foundation, 2025)” “Holy shit,” you say, feeling the strength of Isolde’s monologue wash over you. “Cite your source,” Igraine urges, nudging her sister before getting serious. “We don’t plagiarize here.” “Wikimedia Foundation (2025, February 18). <i>Isoetes</i>. Wikipedia. Retrieved May 5, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isoetes” Isolde says, folding her hands in front of her. “Shall we begin?” “Begin?” <<button [[okay.|i25]]>><</button>>

With no idea of what you’re supposed to actually be <i>doing</i>, you set off into the castle. Rooms and hallways with a bunch of things that are probably pretty important but that would require description and also coming up with. And we don’t have time for that. You’re here to get your ass kicked by an evil woman. Hallway after hallway passes, massive rooms that are empty and just add to this castle being spooky and surely evil, door after locked door. At the end of this hallway, surely the tenth or eleventh one you’ve walked, the door is ajar. It’s a really, really tall door. Oak or mahogany or some other fancy dark wood, with massive hinges that would creak ominously to be opened and engravings depicting all sorts of gory and painful looking deaths in honestly really impressive detail. You have a feeling that whatever happens behind this door won’t be good at all. It’ll probably end in you getting added to that horrific list of illustrations, your guts askew and limbs strewn across the ground. You go through it anyways. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue|ilya 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Finally, you are released from the greenhouse like a grackle who flew in through the delivery doors of a big box store’s lawn care section and then got trapped there, met other grackles and had grand-grackles, only to have been later trapped beneath a display lawn mower in your old age and taken to a rehabilitation center by some meandering customers who didn’t really have anything else to do, but you hadn’t seen the fresh sun in forever before the moment you are carried from the store in a cardboard box. Anyway, the point is you are a grackle. They are nice little birds, by the way. If you couldn’t already infer or didn’t already know. There’s no shame in having not known. Except, as you emerge from the greenhouse, you must have gone through a service door or something, because this place is much more akin to the dingy cardboard box your grackle self was carried from than a place of sunshine and honor, love and light. You are in a dimly lit hallway, but you must be getting closer to your evil brother, Lysander. You can smell the reek of strawberry cheesecake nicotine hanging on the dank air, and honestly it kinda does make you want to take up vaping, but you are a broke college student, and until you reclaim your rightful throne, which actually since he’s your older brother shouldn’t it be his rightful throne? Oh well, you don’t have to understand how succession crises work here. Oh yeah, until you have access to that treasury, you probably can’t afford to take up that habit. Maybe not even then, because it was only equal to the amount of debt you are currently in. Anyway. Seven evil women. There was <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span>, Harrow Lieutenant-Corporal Placeholder of the Grand Imperial Army or something, Miss Rizzle, Clarissa, Dr. Moreau M.D., PsyD, J.D. The Grand Slambassador, Igraine, + also her lesbian twin sister, Isolde. Your brother talked about his girlfriend, whom he is in a loving, monogamous relationship with, and with how badly it sounded like he likes jumping her bones, you can only assume that she must be the seventh evil (either by choice or by association of the values of the system she upholds with either action or inaction) woman challenger. <<if $mommurderer is "navy">>You saw her whooshing wind magic at work. The whooshing wind magic that worked swiftly to behead your widowed mother, leaving you an orphan. Even with all of the strange lessons that you’ve taken away today, you aren’t really sure you could come back from that one.<</if>> She must be beyond the door at the end of this hallway. You can hear it now, the beat drop coming from that room, a hazy cloud of cheesecake floating up from the bottom of the door, caught in strobing neon that peeks out at you. Since you have a moment alone, you decide it’s probably best to psych yourself up and get ready to beat some ass. But first, some much-needed maintenance. You haven’t even adjusted your perfectly coiffed hair in at least several hours. The greenhouse floor had been covered in dirt. Your <<if $pesisclass is "small">>signature white sneakers <<elseif $pesisclass is "large">> socks with a hole in the toe<</if>> are covered in dirt. You take them off and shake them out, sending potting soil and maybe even manure and other compost debris flying everywhere. Phew. Good thing it’s not your job to clean that up. “I heard that part of the narration,” a small voice coming from behind you says. “Am I a fucking joke to you?” You whip around, coming face to face with–a door. So instead you turn your gaze downward, you <i>are</i> pretty tall, after all, and are greeted with the sight of one bedraggled, exhausted woman who looks as though she just recently escaped a shift off of a maid cafe. She winks at you, staring bigly with one large brown eye, and you glimpse her name tag. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[option1|kitty intro]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“eEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! ♥️” Igraine squees, giving her sister a firm hug around the waist. “You’re the best, Isolde! Thank you! I love you!” “I love you, too,” says Isolde as Igraine skips away happily to unlock the doors to the next level for you. As you push forward to proceed, Isolde grabs you, grisping your arm tightly in her hand. “Know this,” she says, fingers digging into your spindly bicep, “You are subpar, below average, yet acceptable today, despite my best judgment. Humans are not as constant, not nearly as predictable as the behavioral patterns of plants. Just because you’ve received my blessing this time does not mean you’ll be so lucky in the future. King or loser college student, if you disappoint my sister, I will know. I will find you. And you will find that I fear no monarch, no frat boy, no shadow nor light. You will not escape me. That much is certain.” “Yes ma’am,” you choke out. “Ma’am. Sister to the ambassador. Sister Ma’ambassador.” “I’m no ambassador. Just a simple farmer.” She frees your arm, and you stumble. “Have a good day, Oleander. We may meet again.” With this, you haul ass towards the next level. “Byeeeeeeee.~~~~~~~~ ♥️” Igraine waves at you, blowing you a kiss on your way out. “Byeeeeeeeeeeeee~” you copy her in fear of Isolde making good on her promise. <<button [[okay.|kitty1][set $location to "outside the greenhouse"]]>><</button>>

It reads: “Kitty <span class = ilya>;3</span>” The ;3 face is drawn on in crayon. It’s pretty apt. She is making exactly that face at you. “Your name is Kitty?” you ask, looking to the broom she uses to sweep up your discarded dirt into a dust pan. “No,” she says, still winking at you. “My name is Kitridge.” “But your nametag,” you say. “No.” Her tone is very flat. She looks like she needs to join a union. Kitty sighs at you. “I am so sick of you.” “What the heck did I do?” you ask. You have literally never seen this woman before, you just fucking got to this chapter, dude. She squints at you, still winking. “I’ve been cleaning up after you all day,” she gestures to her uniform vaguely, before rapping at your ankle with the base of the broom. “Move, please. I have to sweep up the remaining coke line of dirt.” You step back, your grippers chilly upon the stone floor. “Why do you keep winking at me if you’re so mad?” She pauses mid-sweep, tipping her chin upwards to face you fully. As the dim lighting of a nearby fixture hits her face, you realize your error. “I, um.” “Oh,” you say. “I didn’t realize, I’m sorry.” “It’s alright.” “Can I ask how? If that’s alright? Like how did you lose the, uh–” you gesture to your own eye. “<span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and I used to have a thing. <span class = ilya>She</span> likes to play with knives. Don’t ask.” “Oh.” You won’t ask. “Anyway,” she says. “I’ve been cleaning up after you all day. The water and blood in <span class = ilya>Ilya’s</span> room, the blood in Harrow’s spreadsheet, do <i>not</i> tell me whatever that was in Clarissa’s room, please–thankfully, the Dr. is clean. But now you’re here. Tracking in dirt.” <<button [[okay.|kitty 3]]>><</button>>

You hadn’t thought of the consequences of your actions. Only your need for sweet, sweet vengeance, and access to the kingdom’s treasury account. Kitty chides you the way your mother would, except Kitty actually seems to have a point to it. “Sorry, Kitty,” you apologize. “Not my name. And no, you’re not,” she shakes her head. “But I am sorry.” “No you’re not.” “Am so.” “No, I don’t think so. You’re still standing in my way, tracking in dirt–put your <<if $pesisclass is "small">>shoes<<elseif $pesisclass is "large">>socks<</if>> back on, please–and I haven’t even gotten through mopping yet. I still have to clean your brother’s room, but I suppose you want to go in there, lop his head off, and make a big mess there, so I should probably wait.” You did want to do that. “Sorry,” you wince. She mutters to herself as she sweeps the floors around you. You think that maybe a robot vacuum would be a nice gift for her. “Still having to clean the king’s room… it smells in there. Like fuck. And a vaporized gummy bear asshole. And if the soon-to-be-Queen is in there, it smells even more like fuck, not that either of them respect the need for housekeeping to enter. I keep going through spray cans of various disinfectants. We don’t have an aerosol disposal center nearby, it’s a pain in my ass.” “Look,” you reach a hand out to put on her shoulder. Kitty stops in her tracks. “You hate cleaning up after him. Let me through, and you’ll never have to clean up after him again.” She blinks up at you, slowly. “Did you hear me saying that I’ve been cleaning up after you all day? I won’t have to clean up after one king, certainly. But a new one who, from the sound of it, is a college student most of the time, sounds worse.” You certainly can’t argue. There is, after all, a good amount of mold accumulating on the trash left upon your nightstand back home. You hate washing your laundry, and you hate putting it away even more. But god, you really need to get through to that room. “Then let me prove to you, Kitty–” “Not my name.” “That I’m different.” <<button [[okay.|kitty 4]]>><</button>>

…For a moment, you feel as though she may make wooden club of the broom handle in her hand, lifting it overhead and bringing it down swiftly into your skull. Your plot armor doesn’t have a helmet, that would obscure your roguishly angelic face and defeat the point. You aren’t sure you could tank that one. She steps away, and all hope is lost. Until she twists open the knob on an unassuming door. “Lysander’s real room? Was this a fake?” you ask, wide eyed. “No, that’s his room.” She puts away her broom and dust pan, bringing out a bright, wheeled, safety-yellow mop bucket. “This is a supply closet.” “Aw,” you kinda deflate. You didn’t want to actually have to make good on what you said. “You’re going to mop,” says Kitty, putting down a sign reading <i><b>”CAUTION WET FLOOR”</b></i> as she talks. You grisp the mop handle gingerly in your hand, afraid of it. “I don’t know how,” you say. “Sucks to suck,” she says. Breathe easy, Oleander. Rest assured, you can do this. You step gently with the mop bucket, breathe in the scent of sudsy water. There’s a dance to this, a perfect rhythm to match, and you are a nubile baby giraffe in the world of cleaning up after yourself. “Wait. Wait, narrator,” you start. Yeah, little dude? “I’m not a little dude, I’m an alpha male.” Shit, my bad. Go on. “I don’t think <i>”nubile baby giraffe”</i> means what you think it means.” Whatever, man. It was the first word I thought of. It’s too late to back out now. “Whatever.” You put the mop to the floor. “Okay” you say. “I’ve done it. Now what?” Kitty looks at you unimpressed. “It’s easy,” she says. “Now you…” <<set $mopgoal to random(1,100)>> <<if ($mopgoal gt $mopscore)>><<button [[mop the floor|mopping loop]]>> <<set _d20 to random (1,20)>> <<if _d20 is 1>> <<set $mopscore to 0>> <<set $mopspill to true>> <<elseif _d20 is not 1>> <<set $mopscore +=1>> <</if>> <</button>> <<elseif ($mopgoal == $mopscore)>><<button [[you're done here|mopping done]]>><</button>> <</if>>

The room you find yourself in shouldn’t exist; it matches nothing else that you’ve seen here thus far. It stretches into eternity into seemingly all directions; the back of the room feels more like the idea of an end, far further than you think you could estimate, and the width of the room is concealed, your eyes giving up and turning to the ceiling that vaults into haze, elegantly painted and gilt, held in place by a skeleton of ribs and the pillars that condescend just as elegantly towards the tile floor, elaborate patterns painstakingly inlaid in shades of blue and a gold that dazzles in the light. A dazzling made all the more brilliant by the thin layer of water coating the floor and soaking into your socks. It seems to have no source, at least, none you can see from here, but ripples at your movement and something else darting between pillars, a shadow at the corner of your eye that you realize too late is headed straight for you. The door closes behind you. You whirl around, your cape flaring dramatically in the light through tall, arched windows near the ceiling, the long shadows of the pillars providing ample dark to be lost in. A fingertip rasps down the spine of your plot armor, sending chills down your flesh spine. In front of you, in a beam of light, a tall woman with long dark hair rolls <span class = ilya>her</span> shoulders lazily, drawing a pistol from the waistband of <span class = ilya>her</span> gray-black camo cargo pants and checking the slide with one hand, the click of slide hitting home the loudest sound other than the blood rushing in your ears. <span class = ilya>She</span> puts the pistol back and inspects <span class = ilya>her</span> nails before unslinging a rifle from <span class = ilya>her</span> shoulder and drawing it up to aim at you. You know in a heartbeat that <span class = ilya>she</span> won’t miss. <span class = ilya>“Since the second you stepped into this kingdom, I’ve been so… excited to kill you, did you know that? This is it… the Prince of Shadows come to lie in his grave, and I, the instrument of your destruction. What an honor…”</span> “Uh.” you stammer. “I’m not here to die, I’m here to defeat you. Whoever you are.” <span class = ilya>She</span> laughs, pleasant and heady. <span class = ilya>“Who am I? [[I’m…|ilya intro]]”</span>

“Fuck!!” You shout as a bullet cracks past your head, close enough to uncoiff your hair and leave your ears ringing. “That’s a low blow, shooting while I was still looking at the title screen!” <span class = ilya>“What, did you expect me to fight fair? Usually, they don’t get to fight back… I’m just having fun…” Ilya</span> laughs harshly from somewhere, the glint of gunmetal your only indication of <span class = ilya>her</span> location as <span class = ilya>she</span> fires again and you lurch behind a pillar. <span class = ilya>“Want me to make this fair for you? Does the little baby princeling need a gun when he’s got plot armor?”</span> “Yeah,” you yell back, hands clasped over your head. <span class = ilya>Her</span> teasing hurts about as much as a bullet would, you think. You’ve never been shot but that seems like it’s about to change. “Considering you have several guns, that would be really nice, actually!” Something bubblegum pink arcs through the air, tumbling end over end before splashing into the shallow waters. You crawl towards it, praying it to be a grenade to end your suffering or else something useful and not embarrassingly pink, your cloak drenched in water and slumped awkwardly over your shoulders and head and <<if $pesisclass is "small">>socks<<elseif $pesisclass is "large">>shoes<</if>> taking about the same damage, sodden and only getting worse. The blur of pink is a plastic box cutter with retractable blade, conveniently already a little rusty. “What do you want me to do with this?” You shout, raising the box cutter and receiving a round lancing over your head in exchange. You retract back into the shell of your plot armor and pucker more than a little. <span class = ilya>“Well, you can fight me like a man,” Ilya</span> sneers, the sound of <span class = ilya>her</span> booted footsteps far, far closer than you would like given you can’t see <span class = ilya>her. “Or you can pick a vein and kill yourself.”</span> Great. <<button [[CONTINUE|ilya 4]]>><</button>>

“I’m not doing that,” you reply, steeling yourself. Time to find out if this plot armor is sturdy or not, you suppose. <span class = ilya>“Shame,”</span> comes <span class = ilya>Ilya’s</span> reply from somewhere, and you surge forwards, lunging from one pillar to the next as more rifle fire punctuates your movements. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> is somewhere you can’t see, hiding behind pillars and using the room’s alternating bands of deepening shadow and pockets of brilliance to conceal <span class = ilya>herself</span>: what <span class = ilya>she</span> lacks in plot armor <span class = ilya>she</span> makes up for in camouflage. You must be a shiny, rattling sitting duck to <span class = ilya>her</span>, who moves subtly in her dark clothes like a hunter. The pillar above your head explodes, raining marble on the tile and rippling the floor around you. Another shattering of the soft stone, dust collecting on your shoulders. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> takes a moment as you edge around the pillar. <span class = ilya>She</span> must be reloading. You hear the bolt of the rifle sent home, catching a glimpse of <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leaning in a hunter’s crouch around a pillar before you’re sent crashing to the ground, the ringing of metal on metal confirming one thing: <span class = ilya>she</span> shot you. <span class = ilya>She</span> confirms as much with a peel of laughter, the sound of the bolt being worked again, the clattering of a bullet casing on the ground. <span class = ilya>“Hurts, doesn’t it? Even with the armor, doesn’t it take your breath away, bring you nearer to death, nearer to oblivion?”</span> You struggle like a beached sea creature underneath the weight of drenched cloth and armor, your ribs alight with pain. <span class = ilya>Her</span> footsteps near, and you can see <span class = ilya>her</span> reflection in the corner of your vision, rippling, multiplied. You roll and thrash violently to escape, coming to rest behind pillar ruins. <span class = ilya>“You don’t want to die, do you?” Ilya</span> contemplates, slinking slinkily from <span class = ilya>her</span> firing position. <span class = ilya>“Nobody does. But you all have to, in the end. It takes a special kind to be unafraid, and it takes a special type to be the one to bring death. Do you think I fear death, Oleander?”</span> You scramble from ruin to another column, <span class = ilya>Ilya’s</span> sharp aim catching you in the armored thigh and turning you aside as you sprawl, the scrape of metal across tile almost as painful as the pain blossoming across your head (smacked into the floor and now bleeding profusely) and ribs (probably broken) and leg (going to bruise, if it’s still attached to you). “No!” you shout, dragging your uncooperative leg to a normal sitting position as you gather yourself. More marble dust rains down on you, chips flying from where your head just was. <span class = ilya>“Flatterer.”</span> The sound of the rifle and then the bullet, a blur whizzing close enough to smell the gunpowder. <span class = ilya>“It won’t save you. Nothing will save you now but death, Oleander. Though I admit – this is the best hunt I’ve had in a long time. Nothing gets scared like a human. Nothing bleeds like one either.”</span> You struggle to your feet, grunting something incoherent but surely witty in response to the psychopath hunting you. You’re going to have to get closer, force <span class = ilya>her</span> to put that rifle down. It’s gonna hurt. <<button [[Ok.|ilya 5]]>><</button>>

Like a lot. You move from your hiding spot behind yet another pillar and <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> finds you in a heartbeat, a well-aimed shot ringing out in a brilliant shower of sparks as your pauldron lurches with the force of a surely overkill caliber and you hit the ground again. The water swirls around you, a mix of white dust and pink, dilute for now but darkening as you bleed. You groan, expecting your last words on this planet to be “Eurgh”. <span class = ilya>“A shame I can’t take credit for that,” Ilya</span> sneers, lowering <span class = ilya>her</span> rifle. You stare at <span class = ilya>her</span> warped reflection. <span class = ilya>“The blood. Isn’t it beautiful, Oleander? All-consuming red more perfect than anything else so human.”</span> You stare at your blood, taking a moment to try and catch your breath through a ribcage weighing heavily on your softer internal organs, your breath coming bloody and sharp. The boxcutter remains in your hand. The ripples grow more intense as <span class = ilya>she</span> approaches. You’ll have one shot, and you’ll have to take it now. You lurch to your side, separated shoulder screaming in protest like your bruised thigh and broken ribs, and somehow stand, stumbling out of the way of a shot fired just past your cheek. Hot blood leaps from the grazing wound, your fingers coming away sticky. Your back hits a pillar and you curse, <span class = ilya>Ilya’s</span> laughter echoing in your ears. The bolt cycles again, a sharp, bright clink the solid shade of metal against metal. And then all is silent. The only sound is your ragged breath and the occasional crumbling of marble into the water. <span class = ilya>“I see you,” Ilya</span> breathes, and you all but jump, boxcutter held out as though it might save you. “Fuck! Fucking creeper!!” You manage, abandoning your cover to all but stare <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> in the face. “Why don’t you-?” <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> says nothing in response, switching from <span class = ilya>her</span> rifle to pistol in one swift movement fluid and practiced, your only desperate reaction to throw your arms in front of your face as <span class = ilya>she</span> fires once, twice, three times and you crumple to a knee, your bones aching and blood dripping like water from your face. You throw up <<if $mommurderer is "ilya">> again, for good measure<</if>>. <<button [[Ok.|ilya 6]]>><</button>>

<span class = ilya>“Had enough?” Ilya</span> sneers as you struggle to get your bearing, a hand splayed against your dented breastplate and the pulpy mess of rib and organ beneath. <span class = ilya>“Oh, but it’s never enough for people like you. Hapless, hopeless fools so bound to their preconceived notions of honor and strength and your oh so precious masculinity that you think you could duel death and win, that you have deluded yourself into believing yourself so far above the slaughter that it wouldn’t dare deign to dirty your hands. Are you invincible in your plot armor? Or was that only because you believed in it?”</span> <span class = ilya>She</span> pauses. <span class = ilya>“What about now? Does it protect you still? Does it keep you safe from the likes of me?”</span> You gurgle something cool and clever in response, your guts sloshing around aimlessly as you fail to find your legs beneath you. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> draws out a long knife, inspecting it languidly. <span class = ilya>“I suppose I’ll cut the answer from you, how does that sound? Do we like that, better than the gun? You thought this was going to be easy, didn’t you?”</span> You mumble something ultimately aimless but surely intended to be really cool and confident as you consider begging for your life. All seems to slow as the knife lances towards you, your arms vainly raised again as a final defense. You cannot and will not die here, unsteadily rising with the blade of the knife scraping down your vambrace. “How?” You manage, spluttering a little. “How are you doing that?” <span class = ilya>“What, this?” Ilya</span> asks, sneering a little. This close, you can see <span class = ilya>her</span> eyes are entirely dead, black pools of hatred in deep eye sockets the shade of sleep deprivation. The knife pulls away suddenly and you reel, lurching forwards to be greeted with the point slipped between plates. Some horribly undignified noise escapes your lips along with a long, spitty strand of blood. Your already liquified innards threaten to come up with each breath; the knife itself is a point of immense cold, something so horribly solid when the rest of you seems poured into the suit of armor you wear. “Like that with your voice. It’s hard to read. And other things but I do want to know that.” <span class = ilya>“I’m literally just talking,” Ilya</span> drawls. <span class = ilya>She</span> twists the knife and you whimper a little in a really masculine and dignified and heroic way. <span class = ilya>“Are you really going to waste your last moments on this?”</span> “Yeah, probably.” <span class = ilya>“Pathetic.”</span> “I know.” You close your eyes. It’s all so cold. “And also, if you wouldn’t mind – how’d you get through the plot armor?” <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> smiles. <span class = ilya>“Overwhelming violence.”</span> <span class = ilya>She</span> rushes forwards and you realize in the time that it takes you to hit the floor, that <span class = ilya>she’s</span> headbutted you and you’ve come unstuck from <span class = ilya>her</span> knife. The bitch. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue|ilya 7]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Blood seeps into the shallow water, the knife leaping towards you in a blur of reflected light. You weakly turn out of the way, but not before the point nicks your ear, a blossom of pain to join yet more blood on the floor. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> kneels on your plot armor, pinning you in place to make good on <span class = ilya>her</span> promise and carve you out of your plot armor. Boxcutter in hand, you lash out at <span class = ilya>Ilya</span>, the very point of the rusty blade catching <span class = ilya>her</span> cheek. A single drop of blood falls on your face. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> stares at it, crimson on <span class = ilya>her</span> fingertip seeping into the ridges of <span class = ilya>her</span> fingerprints. <span class = ilya>She</span> smiles, increasing the pressure on your splintered chest. <span class = ilya>“How… vain and noble of you. Can you die now, having bloodied me? Does that sate your honor?”</span> You abandon the boxcutter and grab <span class = ilya>her</span> arm as <span class = ilya>she</span> directs the knife in short arc towards your throat, twisting the blade out of <span class = ilya>her</span> hand and sending it clattering across the floor. <span class = ilya>She</span> punches you in the mouth for retribution, and you spit chipped enamel at <span class = ilya>her</span> before lunging for the knife. A bullet rings off your armored spine, having torn through the fine cloak now ruined with blood and water and puke. The knife spirals away, a second shot kicking it away from you. Something cracks against the back of your skull, heavy and sharp. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue|ilya 9]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You are so unbelievably tired. Tired of fighting, tired of bleeding, tired of being able to do less than nothing against <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens.</span> Your hair is wet with blood, the rest of you wet with water. You have been shot like 7 times, and <span class = ilya>she</span> seems to only be playing with you, unwilling to do <span class = ilya>her</span> job as <span class = ilya>Executioner</span> and just put you out of your misery. You think <span class = ilya>she</span> enjoys this. It’d be really, really weird if <span class = ilya>she</span> didn’t enjoy this. You crawl heavily towards a knife, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> walking slowly behind you like a predator toying with <span class = ilya>her</span> prey, one deliberately heavy footfall after the other. <span class = ilya>She</span> steps on your fingertips, crushing them against the knife handle with a sickening crunch. You yelp in a heroic manner. <span class = ilya>“So close… and yet so far… What have we learned, Oleander? Hmm? You were always going to lose. You were always going to get to this linear section and realize too late that I have no intentions of mercy.”</span> <span class = ilya>She</span> eases her weight off your hand now, daring you to grab the knife. To do something. To embrace Overwhelming Violence. And you do. You seize the knife in already-bruising fingers, stabbing <span class = ilya>her</span> in the thigh once and tearing the knife away to scramble to your feet and lunge at her again, burying blade to hilt in <span class = ilya>her</span> side. <span class = ilya>She</span> replies with a right hook, your vision threatening another knockout before you pull yourself together, your retaliation shaky but swift; three heavy punches parried or slipped as <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> forces range once more. <span class = ilya>She</span> looks at you, launching forwards with a sweeping kick that knocks you flat on your ass again. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> stands over you menacingly. You can see where <span class = ilya>she</span> jammed <span class = ilya>her</span> gun back into <span class = ilya>her</span> pocket. Or maybe <span class = ilya>she</span> enjoys this. “Is that… is that a gun in your pocket or.. Are you just really enjoying beating my ass?” you ask really intelligently. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> seems unmoved. You wish <span class = ilya>she</span> would shoot you. Instead, <span class = ilya>she</span> considers the handle of the knife currently hanging out somewhere a little south of <span class = ilya>her</span> ribs and less-than-carefully yanks it out of <span class = ilya>her</span> side. <span class = ilya>Her</span> shirt clings to <span class = ilya>her</span> with the sheer volume of blood that escapes with it, and honestly the slurping sound that the blade made is enough to make you retch again a little. <span class = ilya>She</span> rolls <span class = ilya>her</span> eyes before inspecting knife and wound alike, licking the blade and wiping <span class = ilya>her</span> mouth of the bloody spittle left at the corners of <span class = ilya>her</span> mouth. You retch for real this time, drawing a short, painful laugh from <span class = ilya>Ilya,</span> who is smiling with a strange fire in <span class = ilya>her</span> eyes. <span class = ilya>“You’ve learnt enough,” she</span> starts, pressing <span class = ilya>her</span> fingers to the bloody wound in <span class = ilya>her</span> side. <span class = ilya>“Unfortunately. I’ll never tire of this, someone as mighty as the Prince of Shadows broken over my knee and reduced to a pukey little mess on the ground… <<if $mommurderer is "ilya">>It felt so good to kill your mother…<</if>> I can only imagine how good it would feel to kill you… But I digress. You have been embarrassed enough. You have chosen violence in the face of violence, created a self-fulfilling prophecy from which there is no escape, none. Prophecy may come and go, be warped by words and recollections — but there will always be violence. And I’ll always be at the heart of it. So while I’d love to peel away the layers of that plot armor, dissect what makes you Prince – at this point it would be pure sadism for me and the author both. His wrists and hands are tired, and I’m bleeding. Neither of which are particularly deterrents, because he would love to write me kicking your ass a little more, honestly, he loves writing a fight scene which is why there’s two more of them in the game, but it gives us a convenient place to end this scene. And your stupid brother’s stupid pride would be wounded to see you actually defeated by anyone but him. Men and their fragile egos…”</span> You stare at <span class = ilya>her</span> with a mouth full of blood, a drool strand escaping as you take as deep of a breath as you can manage. “Uh. Thanks for the lesson,” you gurgle out. <span class = ilya>“Anytime,” Ilya</span> purrs, checking the slide of <span class = ilya>her</span> pistol again. <span class = ilya>“If your brother doesn’t kill you, I will. Good luck.”</span> The heavy oaken doors open slowly, the monumental hinges creaking. You walk through them a thoroughly defeated man. <<button [[Continue|harrow 1][$location to "hallways"]]>><</button>>

You wander into the hallway again, feeling your internal organs congeal into a suitably normal formation and density within your abdominal cavity. Nice. The hallways continue to be <<if $pesisclass is "small">>large<<elseif $pesisclass is "large">>smal<</if>> as you clank down them towards some awful end that’s probably going to involve more blunt and sharp force trauma to your already liquified organs but not necessarily kill you. Unless whoever next is somehow more merciful than an <span class = ilya>Executioner.</span> You see a glowing doorway with mist curling off of it at the far end of the hallway. It looks like the kind of boss battle entrance you would see in a particular franchise of notably difficult games that claim to be RPGs, just like this game. The only role you seem to be playing is the victim. The mist that pools like liquid at your <<if $pesisclass is "large">>socked<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>signature white sneakered<</if>> feet is cold as death, humid and kinda gross, to be completely honest. You brush your fingers against the gateway, the mist swirling between your fingertips and wreathing itself around your wrist. It smells faintly of something strangely sterile and harsh, but every sniff you take seems to yield diminishing returns. The faintest whiff of strawberry cheesecake sends you reeling, whirling about as you imagine your dark-armored brother waiting in the hallway, waiting to send you to perdition. A dark shadow looms far, far behind you. There’s nobody else it could be; the faint sound of armor rattling is accompanied by the swish of a cloak, the light being drawn from the candelabras and windows to an outstretched hand; all seems to grow cold and dismal, the light, the life, the joy pulled from everything. You have to run. The gleam of a sword precludes laughter. The Prince of Shadows approaches, your headless mother a strange half-animated marionette dragging alongside him. She raises one long, gnarled finger and you feel her spectral glare honing in on you. Your brother smiles. You stumble backwards, tripping over your sodden cape and falling through the mist. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue |harrow 2][$location to "huh emoji"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You leave The Rizzler’s chambers more than a little disoriented, wandering down one long hallway after the next. Hopefully, your next challenger will be more along the lines of Clarizza and less like <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span>, or Fieldmarshal-Lieutenant Harrow [placeholder], Battlemaster of the Grand Imperial Army. Your natural charms are more than enough to keep you alive, at least comparatively to your fighting skills – even with Overwhelming Violence on your side, you’re not so certain you could survive yet another fight scene. Every single door you’ve come across and tried has been either locked or painted onto the wall, so you look really dumb trying to open a section of drywall. Were you the punching-holes-in-drywall type, you could easily track your progress through the castle by the damage. Instead, you stared at the fake door broodily and sighed, moving on to the next. And the next. And the next. And the next. In this hallway, lit warmly by warm sunlight through really tall arched windows, you try another door. Locked. Another. Locked. Another. Locked. Another? Also locked. The door at the end of the hall looks considerably more ominous at this range and given that you found <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span>, behind a door that had engravings of all sorts of really, really fucked up and generally depraved things, you can only presume your next challenger will be there. You try another hallway door instead. It unlocks. <<button [[CONTINUE|moreau 2][$location to "???"]]>><</button>>

You stumble into a remarkably bland waiting room. Like stereotypically bland – the walls are eggshell and the carpet some nondescript brown-gray-ish pattern, with light fake-wood furniture cushioned with gray-ish upholstery and fake plants collecting a very fine layer of dust in their pots with the hot-glued rocks picked out and coloring books but no coloring utensils and a small ceramic dish with dinosaur and copaganda show stickers presumably for children and another almost identical but deeper and wider and not at all identical ceramic dish filled with hard candies that seem a little dated and Corporate Memphis posters extolling the benefits of various medications and the risks of various diseases and something you can only presume to be a mental health initiative by its cheery images of perfectly diverse friends sitting in a circle and discussing their various traumas with appropriately corporate language promising you’re not alone which makes sense because glossy magazines stare leerily at you from their rack near a reception desk protected behind a thick layer of plexiglass through which you can see filing cabinets and a desk, the swivel chair swiveled away from you. A phone rings. “Is anyone going to get that?” You ask the somehow both cold and musty air. Nobody gets the phone. You sit in a chair that creaks just a little, your armor clinking a little as you settle. The phone rings again. You sit with your hands in your armored lap, missing your own phone and the rush from scrolling endless short videos. The phone rings again. You stand, taking a grand tour of the office and discovering little you didn’t get in your first look. The phone rings again. You unwrap a caramel, the taste of wrapper coating your tongue as you make a face. The phone rings again. You pace over to the magazine rack, inspecting thick copies of <i>Superior Domiciles and Flowerbeds</i>, <i>Timeless</i>, <i>Passe</i>, <i>New Delphine Adolescent Female</i>, <i>57</i>, <i>Lady-killer’s Biannual</i>, <i>International Cartographic</i>, <i>Unappealing Magic</i>, <i>Beneficial Maintenance</i>, <i>Northern Dying</i>, and <i>Competitions Depicted: Swimsuit Edition</i>. The phone rings again. You look up from <i>Competitions Depicted: Swimsuit Edition</i>, deciding to walk over to the phone. You can’t quite reach it from where you lean over the desk, making grabby hands at it and all sorts of dignified noises. The phone rings again. You sigh, and give up, plopping down in a chair with a thunderous sound of metal on metal and your borrowed copy of <i>Competitions Depicted: Swimsuit Edition</i> in hand. The phone rings again. <<button [[CONTINUE|moreau 3]]>><</button>>

You stand here now, on the precipice of change. The scent of vaporized gummy bear asshole hangs heavy on the air, fear catching in your throat. Lysander lies just beyond this doorway. With him, prophecy. Destiny. <i>Your</i> destiny, as ordained by prophecy. And you still aren’t really sure if Kitty counted as the seventh evil woman for you to defeat or if you still have to fight Lysander’s girlfriend (fiancée? She might have been a fiancée.), so you should probably prepare for the worst. In all honesty, you’re kind of relieved that you haven’t had to throw hands with most of these nuanced, evil women. “Beating up seven women” sounds like a really bad way to start off your new reign as king, even if you try to explain that they were evil and holding you back from beating your brother’s ass. Like if anything, that just kind of sounds like you were trying to justify it, so you’d just be digging yourself deeper into the hole. Maybe then you could just explain that <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> shot you like seven times and people would understand. Roll those shoulders. Take a deep breath. Keep your head up, <b><i>king.</i></b> ;) You’re almost there. You tighten your plot armor, you jog in place. You even punch at the air a few times. You’d do a few push-ups, but your long, sexy, spindly, veiny arms are not built like that. But you <i>are</i> built ready. You were born for this. Literally. You were born in accordance to the prophecy that prophesied you, one half of the prophecy, for this. Only one treacherously evil woman stands in your way of vengeance, of royalty, of destiny, the last layer in your brother’s seven-layer forcefield burrito. In fact, she stands right in your way. Like, she’s right here, in the doorway. Standing in front of you. While it smells like fuck in here, she smells suspiciously un-like fuck. In fact, she smells freshly showered. She looks at you from head to <<if $pesisclass is "large">>exposed toe<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>signature white sneaker<</if>>, seemingly unphased by your presence. Up this close, you realize she is remarkably plain compared to your older brother. Up this close, you can also see that her neck is decorated with fresh hickeys. Ew. “He’s still in the shower,” she says, adjusting a tote bag on her shoulder. “You can wait here for him if you want.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|navy2][$location to "the doorway to your brother's room"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“What,” you ask dimly. When she emerged from the haze, you had been in the middle of a sick air-punch. You still are now, frozen in time. Slowly, you lower your hand. “I can just go right on in?” “Yeah,” she shrugs, tousling her hair in her hands. Grabbing at a clump of hair that still drips wet, she sends a blast of wind magic at it, perfectly blowing out her dark curls. Your jaw drops. “How did you do that?” “Wind magic,” she wriggles her fingers at you. A gust of wind comes flying at your face, but only with the same power level as a tiny battery-powered styrofoam fan you receive at a fireworks display on the 4th of July. It also clears away some of the foggy, fruity haze in front of your face, so that’s cool. You feared developing honeycomb lung there for a moment. <<if $mommurderer is "navy">>“Oh, right,” you remember. “You made me an orphan with that.” “Your mom was a bitch anyways,” she says. “Worst mother-in-law ever.”<</if>> “What else do you use the wind magic for?” “Mostly for whipping farts back at your brother when he has gas at 3 AM.” “Oh.” “Yeah. Anyway, I gotta go,” she says, attempting to shoulder past you as bulky plot armor blocks her path. “You aren’t gonna. I don’t know. Try to fight me?” You raise your fists meekly. “You know? Punch punch? Shoot me seven times and stab me?<<if $mommurderer is "navy">> Rip my head off with wind magic?”<</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|navy3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“What are you <i>going</i> through?” she wrinkles her nose. “A lot.” “Rough. Don’t be so eager to expend your HP before the final boss battle.” She throws a gaze over her shoulder back into the room, seemingly searching for her boyfriend or maybe fiancé. “I trust that Lysander’s got it; he has a flair for the dramatic. Plus, you two are prophesied to duke it out for the throne. So what, I try to fight you here and I lose? I’d rather save the trouble and get some errands done at the same time.” Yeah, you can respect that you guess. “Where are you going?” She nods to a seat at a vanity, sidestepping to allow you in farther. “I’ve gotta get your brother a new vape. His is almost out of juice, so. Smoke shop it is.” You take your seat at the vanity stool, manspreading as you do so. It seems to be the only way to comfortably sit in your armor. “Aw, what?” you ask, scandalized. “Can you get me something?” She rummages idly through her tote bag. “Show me an ID and maybe.” Your fingers fumble through the many hiding spaces and tricked out pockets of your plot armor, but sadly, your wallet did not travel across the isekai-multiverse with you. You surrender, shrugging tepidly. “Then, no,” she reaches across you, grabbing a hair tie from off of the vanity and looping it around her wrist, pulling her hair back into a bun. She pats your perfectly coiffed hair and ruffles it, fucking it up in the way only your elder sibling’s chosen people can do. “Sorry. Go easy on him. See you, kid.” “Do I even like. Get to know your name?” “You’re here to kill my fiancé, dude. Get real.” With that, she snorts, turning on her heel and leaving you here. Alone. Waiting for your brother to get out of the shower. <<button [[CONTINUE|navy intro]]>><</button>>

Your brother’s room is honestly not as impressive as you had imagined. Even that cool strobe effect you saw coming from under the door is shut off, so you shudder to imagine what that and the music were meant to cover up. <<linkappend "Back home">> (is this home?)<</linkappend>>, you were never allowed in your brother’s room. So naturally, you snuck in there whenever he wasn’t around. This persisted well into summer and holiday breaks returned home from college. It’s kind of your right as a younger sibling, to go through your sibling’s personal belongings. That’s exactly what you’re going to do. You glimpse the vanity and find gleaming, golden strands of hair stuck in the hairbrush lying atop it. It seems Lysander likes preening. Before you set off to rifle through your older brother’s possessions, you could also go for a light bit of preening. You grab the hairbrush and run it through your hair. It falls perfectly into place. You could probably stand to freshen up. You open the drawer of the vanity, pulling out a stick of gel deodorant. The scent is Ancient Zest: Admiral… nice. You open up the cap, and there are no pit hairs stuck to it, so you use it. You also find a nice little bottle of some expensive-looking cologne in the drawer, so you use that, too. As you rise from the stool, your knees crack. You may have taken some damage today, but seeing as you started out the morning with the intent of taking a bus to the face, it just seems like it was all in the plot outline. This will simply have to become a problem for later you. Now you’re ready to take on the world. And snoop. Where would you like to snoop first? <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[In Lysander’s wardrobe.|esnupi][$esnupi to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Underneath Lysander’s bed.|esnupi][$esnupi to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[At Lysander’s desk.|esnupi][$esnupi to 3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[On Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<i>In</i> Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Aside from a cunty, all-black wardrobe, you don’t find anything of note here.

You don’t find anything of note here. Had Lysander’s girlfriend not just been here, you would jump on the bed, but with the weight of knowledge on your shoulders, you’ll pass.

Here, sitting atop the desk, is Lysander’s journal. You flip it open. All of the pages are blank. Lysander does not journal authentically.

On the corner of the nightstand rests an old, beaten-to-shit wallet. You open it up, and spot a colorful foil wrapper. “Oh fuck yes,” you say. “A little treat for me.” You pull it out, eager to digest your spoils. It is not a little treat for you. It is a long-past expired wallet condom. You gag, but at least the disgust masks your disappointment. You put the wallet condom and the wallet back in their rightful places.

You slide open the nightstand drawer. Oh. Oh non-denominational god. You were not meant to see that.

<<if $esnupi is 1>><<include "snoop 1">> You keep snooping. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[In Lysander’s wardrobe.|esnupi][$esnupi to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Underneath Lysander’s bed.|esnupi][$esnupi to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[At Lysander’s desk.|esnupi][$esnupi to 3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[On Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<i>In</i> Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>><<elseif $esnupi is 2>><<include "snoop 2">> You keep snooping. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[In Lysander’s wardrobe.|esnupi][$esnupi to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Underneath Lysander’s bed.|esnupi][$esnupi to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[At Lysander’s desk.|esnupi][$esnupi to 3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[On Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<i>In</i> Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>><<elseif $esnupi is 3>><<include "snoop 3">> You keep snooping. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[In Lysander’s wardrobe.|esnupi][$esnupi to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Underneath Lysander’s bed.|esnupi][$esnupi to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[At Lysander’s desk.|esnupi][$esnupi to 3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[On Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<i>In</i> Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>><<elseif $esnupi is 4>><<include "snoop 4">> You keep snooping. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[In Lysander’s wardrobe.|esnupi][$esnupi to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Underneath Lysander’s bed.|esnupi][$esnupi to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[At Lysander’s desk.|esnupi][$esnupi to 3]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[On Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 4]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[<i>In</i> Lysander’s nightstand.|esnupi][$esnupi to 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>><<elseif $esnupi is 5>><<include "snoop 5">> <<button [[(enter whiteboy, lysander)|lysander 1]]>><</button>> <</if>>

You were so engulfed in rifling through your brother’s belongings that you hadn’t even noticed when the rolling background noise of the shower in the master bathroom came to a halt, but you certainly notice when the door opens. Lysander emerges in cozier clothes than he wore in the throne room, black sweatpants and an old Indifferent Juice Motel band t-shirt. His hair drips soggily, drenching the towel worn loosely around his shoulders while he whistles poorly. <<if $pesisclass is "large">>A sound even more terrible than his tune comes along with his every step—a fat, wet, <i>squelch.</i> You follow the sound of the noise with your shimmering blue orbs and come to a rest at his feet—this asshole wore your shoes, your signature white sneakers, into the shower. They slop wetly with his every step.<</if>> He doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. You slide the drawer of his nightstand shut, and his whistling croon comes to a halt. He looks at you, husky blue eye drawn wide, and smirks so sinisterly. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my brother, Oleander, Prince of Shadow, come to face me after defeating the seven very capable, nuanced, and evil women within my harem, as prophesied within the prophecy of olde. Very well, brother. You want access to the throne and/or enough money to pay off your student loans? Come and take it.” Lysander rips off the towel around his shoulders, whipping you with it as he does so. You flinch, and when again your eyes open, he wears midnight’s gleaming battle armor. (oh fuck) <<button [[Ok.|lysander 2]]>><</button>>

“Wait, how did you do that?” you ask, eyes boggling out of your head at your brother’s quick costume change, performed with the efficiency of a high school theatre kid. It’s a new chapter now, so you assume he’ll just tell you during the title card, so that the authors don’t have to work out all of the semantics. Lysander begins monologuing at you, as he seems to love doing, but the correct author isn’t currently writing this passage to be able to adequately capture his witty quips and jests while monologuing at you. Maybe if you’re lucky, the other author will come in later and write that here instead. Hi, other author here. Here’s a monologue. [LYSANDER MONOLOGUE] “Hello, little brother,” Lysander sneers, adjusting the pauldrons of his mirror-black armor. It shimmers in the light that he warps around himself. It makes him all the more intimidating, and he’s barely said anything yet. “I see you’ve made it through my seven women of dubious moral inclination. Each door opened, the way before you cleared with ardor, with determination, grit, even faint, desperate hope. I see you’ve survived with nary a scratch on you– it must be the plot armor, hmm? Or just dumb luck?” “Okayyyyy…” you say, waiting for the title card to come in as he monologues. The windows begin dimming, blocking out all light from the outside. Darkness creeps over the room, darkness befitting the Prince of Shadow who stands in your way. [lysander continues monologuing] “I think you’ll find that your luck has finally run out, Prince of Shadows. My <span class = ilya>Executioner</span> beat you to a pulp, hunted you for sport, toyed with your death. It was not <span class = ilya>hers</span> to claim. The Grand Imperial Battlemaster tested every single one of your survival instincts and found them sufficient – or else you outlasted her perpetual, calculated assault. The Rizzler asked you to employ your charms and wits, and to best her in sharpness of tongue.” “Heh. Yeah I did use my tongue for that, <<if $dickwet is true>> like a lot,<</if>>” you smirk. Lysander seems pissed that you interrupted him, but he continues, adjusting his cloak of jet-black sky. His heterochromatic eyes flash at you, one bright orb, one dark orb. “And then you must have encountered my Beastmaster and her seven hellhounds. A daring fight, perhaps. Or else cowardice, running and hiding while they hounded your scent and bayed for blood. You’ll have to tell me sometime – I intend on keeping you around, Oleander. You can entertain the courts, if nothing else. I think a funny little guy like you would make fine entertainment for hungry courts, no?” “Uh,” you say. “There was a <i>beastmaster</i>? I read this titillating magazine and ate an old caramel and then had about nine tubes of blood drawn by a vampi-sorry vampyre doctor?” “How… curious.” your brother snarls, spittle flying from his curled lip of disdain and disgusting the other author when she gets around to reading this. “After the vampyre, the Ambassador and her lesbian twin sister, then. A test of your intelligence, a test of your wit, charisma, and level head – a masterclass of policy, I’m certain. And you were found suitable by their impossible standards. Somehow.” “Yeah,” you smirk self-assuredly. You know something your brother doesn’t. You’ve got the advantage here. Lysander smirks back. “The Ambassador is not to be trifled with. Her and her sister both – bloodthirsty, and smarter separately than an entire council of eunuchs. Which some men have become to escape Igraine’s attention. Put the two of them together – well, I think you’re lucky to be here, don’t you?” He pauses, hands folded behind his back dramatically. “And then after the Ambassador – The Harbinger. Prophet, singer of omens, a powerful magic user capable of invading your mind and turning it inside out — how was that, brother? Did you like it as she rifled through your thoughts and memories, turned your fragmented brain into spear to impale you upon? Did you think about clawing off your plot armor, did you consider how merciful death would be?” “Hello?????” you ask, looking around for the title card. You’d kinda like a mini break to prepare for the final battle, please. “I just mopped for honestly a while.” Lysander huffs. “Why do I keep these people on payroll if they can be avoided..?Nevermind.” He reaches into his pockets and removes a bright reddish DweebBar, taking a long inhale he blows into the air, a strange mist of cloying sweetness weighing heavily against your skin. “Navy didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?” he laughs evilly. “I jest. She gives me hell beyond comprehension with her wind magic – I did not know it could smell so hellacious and loathsome but she wields it like a whip made of the wind itself – and I hesitate to imagine the hell she would give you, little brother.” “Oh yeah,” you lie, smirking. “She gave me hell for sure.” [lysander final monologue?]Loudspeakers blast to life with an ear-shattering rendition of a pitched up song by a Swedish band as the floor comes alight beneath your feet, each tile blinking in random pattern and color. The darkened windows make LED screens of themselves, beaming your vision with bright anime music videos of dancing anime girls who move in tune with Lysander’s playlist. “Hear that, brother?” You can barely hear him over the sound of his playlist, the anime girls dancing reflected in his jet-mirror-black armor. But he keeps talking, yelling now. “HEAR THAT, <i>BROTHER?</i> THAT IS YOUR DEATH. THAT IS YOUR INHERITANCE, YOUR COMEUPPANCE, THAT IS WHAT YOU HAVE EARNED! THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE HERE FOR – NOT REVENGE OR PROPHECY OR STUDENT LOAN RELIEF – DEATH. I AM THE FINAL INSTRUMENT OF IT – WHERE <span class = ilya>EXECUTIONER</span> AND BATTLEMASTER AND RIZZLER AND BEASTMASTER AND DOCTOR AND AMBASSADOR AND HER LESBIAN SISTER AND HARBINGER AND NONUNIONIZED MAID AND MY OWN FIANCEE HAVE FAILED, I WILL SUCCEED. I AM THE BRINGER OF LIGHT AND SHADOW BOTH, <i>BROTHER</i>, AND YOU ARE NOTHING, YOU ARE A LITTLE BITCH IN <<if $pesisclass is "large">> WET SOCKS<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>SIGNATURE WHITE SNEAKERS<</if>>! I AM YOUR DEATH!” He howls with laughter, drawing a sword. “FATHER LIED TO YOU. FATHER DIED FOR YOU, BY YOUR OWN HAND. MOTHER LIED TO YOU. SHE TOLD YOU THAT YOU WOULD BE A HERO WHEN YOU ARE NAUGHT BUT A SACRIFICIAL LAMB, YOU ARE BUT AN INSTRUMENT IN YOUR OWN FATE, YOU HAVE NO FREE WILL, YOU HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO FIGHT ME – IT’S IN THE NARRATIVE, IT’S IN THE STORY AND IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN. IT ALWAYS HAS TO END LIKE THIS, BROTHER! ALWAYS! COME, GREET YOUR DEATH WITH OPEN ARMS! COME, BE THANKFUL I WILL MAKE IT QUICK!” one final laugh, your brother’s smirk growing truly evil as he hits his DweebBar and exhales strawberry cheesecake smoke in a halo over his wrought iron crown.You can barely hear him over the blasting nightcore. “Come on, <i>brother</i>. For light and shadow. Let this ballad have an end.” You realize the title screen isn’t coming, probably because the title cards were only made for the approximately seven or so nuanced yet ultimately evil women you had to defeat. You need to ready yourself. Immediately. <<button [[uh oh|lysander battle start]]>><</button>>

You rotate the magazine, like that one meme of the neuron activation monkey, to get a better look at whatever professional athlete that the good, clean-minded people over at <i>Competitions Depicted</i> has decided needs their butt bronzed and crammed into a tiny swimsuit for the relevancy of their sport and the love of the game. It’s kinda impressive. The phone rings again. The phone rings agai- the phone is picked up off its receiver but you’re too busy considering the logistics of- A pale hand wrests the magazine from you, crinkling the page. “You don’t have an appointment scheduled. Who are <i>you?</i>” <<button [[uh oh|moreau 4]]>><</button>>

“Uh. Prince of Light, Oleander.” you reply, extending your hand before clearing your throat. “Prophesied to reclaim the throne from my brother, to rule with both shadow and light, to bring balance to the kingdom. Son to a murdered mother, son to a murdered father?” “Mhm.” The doctor – she certainly looks like a doctor, tall and thin and severe with a short, blunt haircut (gray, of course, she looks to be older than your now-decapitated mother), narrowed gray eyes, and thin hands with prominent knuckles, pale as her white lab coat and somehow shimmering under the lights — declines to shake your hand, gently rolling the magazine after giving it a disapproving look. “So, uh, are you part of the seven evil women I have to defeat or can I just…” “Come with me,” she demands sharply. <<button [[okay.|moreau 5]]>><</button>>

You follow her through a door – the magazine is returned to its rack along the way and you consider briefly asking why it’s there but you’ve entered the labyrinth, her domain of sterile, antiseptic scented cold. It’s all so quiet, closed doors and dim lights revealing absolutely nothing to you as white noise machines stationed outside of the doors add to the utterly suffocating atmosphere. Even the clanking of your plot armor seems to grow shy, muffled a bit. The doctor wears sturdy boots, the polished leather glimmering at the hems of her pants and making no sound, her the deity of this domain and traversing it so easily. “Hey,” you manage, the doctor stopping dead in her tracks and you very nearly stumbling into her back. A cold hand steadies you with a practiced ease. “I said who I am but– who are you, other than the doctor, of course, you look like a very qualified and licensed medical professional and not a snake oil salesman or an anti-vaxxer or a pseudoscientist or a charlatan or the Secretary of Health and Human Services.” The doctor sighs. <<button [[okay.|moreau intro]]>><</button>>

“Any further questions?” Dr. Moreau asks, sounding rather bored as she leads you further back, to a room occupied by a rather terrifying set of lab equipment. “So you’re not part of the harem, then? My brother didn’t pull and/or employ a GILF?” Dr. Moreau sighs, her shoulders slumping. The sleeves of her labcoat are stained a little rusty at the seams, and the door clicks shut behind you. You have a really, really bad feeling about this. “No.” A pause. “I am a medical professional, amongst other things. Please never call me a-” she shudders “-<i>that</i> again. Thank you.” “Right.” “Sit,” she commands, and you do, your butt armor crinkling the paper sheet placed over a vinyl-wrapped chair. Like your grandmother’s couch but with malice instead of florals. It’s really not helping her case, but you keep the conversation light. “So…” She sighs again. She’s been opening cabinets and setting up a cart with an array of tubes, glass by the faint tinkling of glass as they bump against each other in the rack she slots each one into – 7 in total. A lucky number, considering that’s how many times you were shot by <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span> earlier. Maybe you should ask her what you should do about the guts that are just kinda sloshing around in your plot armor or the roguish cut on your cheek or ear or the stab wound, all of which were forgotten until this mention here and really didn’t affect anything considering you could have had sex with the Rizzler, Clarissa in the last chapter. Sorry if you didn’t. Skill issue. She continues to gather things, a pair of black gloves from a box on the wall and a finely selected needle and a syringe and a tourniquet and a handful of alcohol swabs and gauze and laboratory specimen labels and a stack of forms and a bright red container with a biohazard symbol. You have a really, really bad feeling about this. “Why all those fancy titles?” You feel like you could throw up again and you desperately want to and need to distract yourself and trying to remember what obscure sport and athlete was in that copy of <i>Competitions Depicted: Swimsuit Edition</i> is <b>not</b> cutting it. “That’s a lot of school. And a lot of student loans — how did you- nevermind- surely there has to be someone more qualified to do all of those things and also what’s a J.D anyways?” You really seem to disappoint her, an angry kind of sparkle descending over her visage. It looks like the skin of a killer, which is a really, really bad thing to be if you’re also apparently a qualified doctor. “I’ve had a long time to study,” she explains, which makes sense because she seems old. “A J.D. is a <i>juris doctorate</i>, which, in the simplest terms, means I have completed law school.” “Why would you need to complete law school? Just bored? <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> do too good of a job killing people for you to have any medical work?” Dr. Moreau looks you dead in the eyes. You think she could be smiling, but you’re not sure. Something in those dark eyes brightens horribly. “I was tired of getting sued. Medical malpractice. And I enjoy the procedural work.” You have a really, <i>really</i> bad feeling about this. <<button [[continue.|moreau 7]]>><</button>>

“Right!” you squeak out, leaning forwards to stand up. “I’ll, ah, I’ll be on my way! I’ll just be heading out.” “Sit,” Dr. Moreau says, a single sparkling hand and a strange compulsion forcing you to sit back down. “Please state your full name as verbal consent for the procedure.” “Uh. What procedure?” “The procedure.” “Right, the procedure.” “State your full name as verbal consent for the procedure.” “Oleander, Prince of Light?” “Sure,” Dr. Moreau says, scrawling something on her stack of paperwork. “Oleander, Prince of Light, my name is Dr. Moreau, M.D., PsyD, J.D, etc. and I will be performing a routine procedure today. Do you have any allergies, phobias, or have you fainted recently?” You think for a second. “I think I’m allergic to dragonfruit? I don’t think it’s supposed to be itchy, at least. Uh. No phobias. I’m kinda an alpha male and that’d be totally beta of me. And I fainted like twice earlier but that’s because <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> shot me a bunch of times and headbutted and stabbed me for good measure. It’s not because I’m weak or anything. I’ve got a really high Constitution stat.” “Hmm.” Dr. Moreau says, swiftly detaching the vambrace of your plot armor and rolling up your chainmail and sleeve. She places a paper towel beneath your forearm. “Hey- uh - how’d you do that?” You plead, eyes wide. You have a really, really bad feeling about this. “Plot armor doesn’t apply to me,” Dr. Moreau explains evenly. “I have more important things to do than deal with prophecy. Paperwork, mostly. Taxes for the East Southeastern court and the throne in spring.” “You do taxes for the fae courts? And my brother?” “Taxes. Legal representation. Medical services. Non-legal advice.” Dr. Moreau sounds bored even as her skin sparkles, probing your <<linkappend "antecubital fossa">> (forearm)<</linkappend>> and elbow, seemingly for veins. Satisfied with what she finds, she ties a tourniquet around your thin but supple bicep and draws it taut for good measure. You have a really, really bad feeling about this. “Do… do you do blood draws often?” Dr. Moreau smiles with too-sharp teeth. “When I need to.” “I know what you are,” you stammer as Dr. Moreau runs the water and washes her hands carefully, her back to you. You don’t think you could say it to her face. “Say it, then,” she sneers, suddenly cold as she waits on the paper towel dispenser to dispense a brown paper towel with a whir. She dries her hands and snaps on her gloves. “Go on. Say it.” “A vampire.” <<button [[[dramatic music starts]|moreau 8]]>><</button>>

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Dr. Moreau sighs, shaking her sparkling head. “How astute. A Vampyre.” “Vampire.” “Vampyre.” “Vampire.” “No. Vampyre.” “There’s a difference? I thought you were a vampire.” Dr. Moreau makes a slight disgusted noise. You must really, really disappoint her. “Vampyre. Legally, this gives us a chance at distinguishing ourselves from other young adult 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔞 𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔶 media under parody laws, which is good – I may have a juris doctorate, but I cannot represent the authors in court. You keep spelling it wrong, which insults me as a vampyre and the craft of the authors both.” “How do you know that?” you ask, a weird feeling in your gut like you’re going to puke again. “You learn a few things if you’ve been around for this age and several before it, too.” “Like what?” Dr. Moreau doesn’t reply, opening a pack of alcohol wipes. The stench of them is the smelliest thing in the room. “Make a fist,” she commands, and you close bruised knuckles tightly around your palm so that your veins stand out more, easy targets for a vampyre doctor’s appetite. She swabs your skin with the alcohol wipe for about 30 seconds of uncomfortable silence and lets it dry a further 30. “I have learnt that prophecy is particularly subject to interpretation and revision. As is history – what has happened – what is recorded, no, not the objective truth but what we remember – is painted by those who survive it, and specifically, those whose cross to bear is an agenda, an ideology, a preordained premonition of a future in which their past is something bright to be celebrated or dark to be overcome. The future is always lighter, the past always in shadow, from these dark days and ages, light, from memory something brighter: we remember the darkest days not for the grimness of their clouds nor the black smoke choking the horizon nor the cold, driving rain but for the single beam of sun breaking through the clouds. Intentional or not, every story has its biases. And what is prophecy but a story of the future, vain hope worn on a sunbeam whose path may or may not fall across your face? Who tells the story, Oleander?” “Maybe an author? Or a storyteller.” You stare at the doctor for a moment. “Or- or a soothsayer. Like my mom (RIP).” Dr. Moreau laughs. You really, really wish she wouldn’t do that. Her teeth look really sharp. “Soothsayers and charlatans share robes with propagandists and kings.” “I literally just told you that my dead mother was a soothsayer and you’re just gonna sit there and insult her like that? That’s really fucked up, actually. ” “Have you ever considered that people might lie to you, Oleander, Prince of Shadow?” “I mean, yeah. I talked to Clarizza.” “Hmm.” Dr. Moreau places a thumb on your forearm, pressing kinda hard against a vein that stands out against your alabaster skin. You see the long needle staring at you like some kind of really sharp mosquito and think to yourself that you really, really knew she was setting up for a blood draw and the vampire- Dr. Moreau glares at you- vampyre thing really was just you stalling. And now you know way too much and can’t escape it. The needle enters your skin swiftly at approximately a 30 degree angle. You make a very normal and manly – heroic, even – noise. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|moreau 9]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Dr. Moreau ends up taking nine tubes of blood – a deep, rich red that <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> would call beautiful and you could maybe agree with, at least, now that your blood isn’t just coming up or out of your guts. You feel dizzy as you watch her inspect each, probably due to the fact that your blood is in the tubes and not in you. Dr. Moreau removes the tourniquet and discards it, retracting the needle from your veins and pressing a square of gauze to the hole in your skin, leaving you to apply pressure as she discards the waste and the needle into the biohazard container. “So, uh… What’re you gonna do with my blood?” Dr. Moreau shrugs. “I have yet to decide.” “Can I choose? Considering it’s, uh, my blood?” The doctor considers for a long moment, washing and drying her hands. “I don’t see why not.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Actually, I don’t care, as long as it’s not for vampire stuff.|world is NOT vampire]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Actually, I don’t care, as long as it’s for vampire stuff.|world is vampire]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Dr. Moreau nods. “I could run one of a few tests for you. Either a general panel to check vitamin, mineral, and hormonal levels or one of several panels for blood-borne diseases. Including venereal diseases.” “Woah,” you say. “Modern medicine is really neat and- wait what venereal disease?” Dr. Moreau looks tired and bored. “You seem like <<if $dickwet is true>> you’ve made<<elseif $dickwet is false>> you make<</if>> poor enough decisions. While a surprising percentage of people engage in unprotected sex, few pass through my office - or any other service for that matter - unless there’s something significantly wrong. It’s not shameful. And it’s better to be informed than to just be a vector for infectious disease.” “Oh. Right.” You should decide what your blood is being used for now. It’d be best not to keep her waiting, you think. You’re sure she could get another few vials of blood out of you. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[General blood panel.|moreau 10][$choice to 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Blood-borne disease panel.|moreau 10][$choice to 2]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Fuck it. Venereal disease panel.|moreau 10][$choice to 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“You gotta use it for vampire-sorry- vampyre stuff,” you say, crossing your arms. Honestly, while this is a longshot, the worst thing she can say is no. “Otherwise, what? It’s just that a <i>vampyre</i> drew my blood and then just sent it to a lab somewhere? That’s a little boring, don’t you think?” Dr. Moreau picks up a tube and holds it to the light, sloshing it a little. She looks thoroughly unimpressed, and honestly, you're really surprised you’re getting to walk away from all of this alive, and with your dignity mostly intact too. “You aren’t my type,” she explains coldly. Well. Maybe the worst thing she could have said was not in fact “no.” “Oh, like blood type or something? I think I’m like. O negative or something.” You pause, trying to save face. “Do vampyres have to match blood types with their vict-I mean donors?” “No.” “So what’s wrong with <i>my</i> blood then?” You whine. This is fucked up and mean. “Fundamentally, nothing is wrong with your blood. The issue is you.” “Oh. I’m not sick or anything, like, not at all. I’m not sick or gross or anything, my blood is clean and all.” Dr. Moreau grumbles. “You weren’t listening. The issue is not your <i>blood</i>. The issue is <i>you.</i>” She’s really hammering the point home. Your jaw hangs open like some kind of slack-jawed fish seen in the deep ocean that a scientist on one of those remote-operated-submersibles would laugh at before identifying by some embarrassing name. Like the Bony-Eared Assfish (<i>Acanthonus armatus</i>). Or the Slippery Dick Wrasse (<i>Halichoeres bivittatus</i>). Or the Lumpsucker (<i>Cyclopterus lumpus</i>). A simple “No” would have been merciful. Dr. Moreau is not merciful. She continues. “I am a particular woman, Oleander. I only conduct vampyre activities with human women between the ages of twenty-five and forty. You are regrettably human, but not a woman nor between the ages of twenty-five and forty, and thus gleefully and thankfully disqualified. Do you understand?” You mumble agreement. “You can do something different with my blood, then.” “Thank you.” <<include "world is NOT vampire">>

<<if $choice is 1>>“I’m like – you know – the spitting image of health,” you lie, feeling your stab wound and broken ribs laugh at you. “Just run my panels, and tell me what multivitamin I should take. Not one with zinc though, I threw up my instant ramen once after taking zinc and a noodle came out my nose. That was gross.” Dr. Moreau rolls her eyes. “I’ll have the labs run the test. A receptionist will contact you when the results come in.” “So someone <i>does</i> man the phone then…” you say, remembering the incessant ringing of the phones from earlier. “Yes. The workers are union though, so the receptionist was likely on her mandated lunch break.” You nod. It’s nice they have unions here, and you suspect Dr. Moreau’s under the table-ish lawyering is likely the reason why. But that’s enough waiting in this cold room and cold office. You stand up really, really woozily, tugging your sleeve back down and fastening your plot armor vambrace around your depleted forearm, almost falling over in the process. It’ll pass, and won’t be mentioned again in the next chapter, likely.<<elseif $choice is 2>>“Honestly I took a lot of damage between fighting <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens</span> and the Fieldmarshal-Lieutenant – <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> gave me a rusty boxcutter and I honestly think I probably got tetanus. Or lead poisoning. Because I was shot at least seven times.” Dr. Moreau nods. “I’ll have the labs run the test. A receptionist will contact you when the results come in.” “So someone <i>does</i> man the phone then…” you say, remembering the incessant ringing of the phones from earlier. “Yes. The workers are union though, so the receptionist was likely on her mandated lunch break.” You nod. It’s nice they have unions here, and you suspect Dr. Moreau’s under the table-ish lawyering is likely the reason why. But that’s enough waiting in this cold room and cold office. You stand up really woozily, tugging your sleeve back down and fastening your plot armor vambrace around your depleted forearm. <<elseif $choice is 3>><<set $hp to $maxhp>>“Can you just. Can you do the last one?” You say, a little embarrassed. Dr. Moreau rolls her eyes. “People always develop a sense of shame when it comes to sex. I’ll have the labs run the test. A receptionist will contact you when the results come in.” “So someone <i>does</i> man the phone then…” you say, remembering the incessant ringing of the phones from earlier. “Yes. The workers are union though, so the receptionist was likely on her mandated lunch break.” You nod. It’s nice they have unions here, and you suspect Dr. Moreau’s under the table-ish lawyering is likely the reason why. But that’s enough waiting in this cold room and cold office. You stand up a little woozily, tugging your sleeve back down and fastening your plot armor vambrace around your depleted forearm. You feel suspiciously like your hit points have been replenished. <</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|moreau 11][$location to "the hallway outside dr. moreau's office"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

On your way out, you look at Dr. Moreau. “Can I have a sticker? Or that copy of <i>Competitions Depicted</i>?” She smacks you with the rolled up copy of the magazine.You decide not to push it any further and head for the hallways. You wander for a bit before you find a beautiful wrought iron door with frosted glass panes. The title card hits you almost as immediately as the humidity does. <<button [[Ok.|i2 intro]]>><</button>>

Your brother stumbles, staggering back, his armor clattering with him as he’s sent crashing down, sliding against smooth light-up dancefloor. “Brother!” you scream in spite of yourself, in spite of knowing it was your awesome power that blasted him. “Heh,” Lysander heaves, wheezing shakily as he pulls himself to recovery. You see him weakening, in the way he trembles as he rises to bended knee. By both yours and the code’s calculations, he should be at about 50% HP now. You could finish this soon. You can have your victory, if only you have the stomach to take it. “Give up, Lysander,” you command, straightening the set of your shoulders. “Give up now, and no one has to get hurt.” He raises one blonde eyebrow at you. “No one has to get hurt? I’m already at 50% HP, brother. All thanks to you.” When he speaks, you notice the way red rims the inside of his lips, the way it coats his teeth. A single trickle of blood begins to drip from the corner of his mouth, cutting a perfect line down his chin, before it splits upon meeting one pubey chin hair. That’s fair, yeah. You did do this to him. His hands fumble in the tricked out pockets of his mirror-black armor, and you shudder to imagine what sort of tool he could pull out now. Guns exist in this universe, after all. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Harrow both had guns, and you’re pretty sure neither of them should be trusted with one, plus Lysander pulling out a pistol right now seems like the sort of cheap trick the authors of this story like to use. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l502]] </div></li> </ol></div>

You can’t have him pulling out a gun right now, or some other instrument leading to your demise. Your plot armor doesn’t have a helmet. You stamp your foot against the ground, dropping your voice into your throat and letting it flow ragged in warning. “Give this up now, Lysander!” you growl. “Let this prophecy come to a close and give your throne to me. Let light rule the way, let me guide the lands of New Delphine. Listen to me! Do you hear me, Lysander?! I don’t want to have to drop your HP further than this!” “But we both know you will, Oleander…” Lysander adjusts himself on the ground, finally producing what he had been searching for. His beloved DweebBar, the reddish thing looking small in his shaking, trembling hands. “Heh… let light rule the way. So I suppose you still think you’re the good guy in all of this.” You gesture to your plot armor, which you surely would not have woken up in had you not been the good guy in all of this. “Uh, yeah,” you say. “Kinda. Duh.” “You’re not the light, Oleander. You wouldn’t know the first thing of it.” You can’t hear this, you won’t. Your head begins to swim. “No,” you argue, “I am.” “No, you’re not,” Lysander smirks. He raises the DweebBar to his lips, ready to inhale, and you scream. “YES I AM! I AM THE LIGHT, AND WE HAVE OUR COLOR SCHEMES TO PROVE IT. DO NOT SIT THERE AND TELL ME WHAT I AM AND VAPE AT ME NONCHALANTLY LIKE YOU ARE RIGHT. I KNOW WHO I AM! I KNOW WHAT I AM! PUT DOWN THE DWEEBBAR. NOW!” Lysander smirks again. Smirking, always smirking, always going heh, as he does now. “Heh,” he chuckles. “But you’re about to kill me, Oleander. You wouldn't deny a man one last smoke, would you?” You can feel the heat in your face, and you’re pretty sure the veins in your neck are straining against your skin. Still, he isn’t wrong, and you shrink. You did come to kill him. You cannot deny him, your brother, this. With a wave of your hand, you nod permissively. The lights on the DweebBar begin to flash as Lysander sucks in, dwindling in an instant from yellow to orange to red. Dimly in the back of your mind, you hope for his sake that his fiancee reappears with a new vape for him soon. But that is only pity for a snake, foolish pity that a king should never have. You cannot bring yourself to look upon a man you’ve condemned. Perhaps that is where you make your first mistake. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[option 1|l503]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Lysander musters what strength he can to push himself up from the ground, up towards you, throwing himself at you in a blur of mirrorball polish and reflective lights. His hands grasp you round the arms, but he is weak, and sinks just as soon as he has his claws sunk in. You see it now, the fury in his heterochromic eyes, the smoke billowing from his nostrils. You sag forward with his weight, and he blows, vaporized strawberry cheesecake asshole spilling from his mouth and obscuring your vision. You gag, gasping for air, but in this proximity there is only you and this strawberry cheesecake asshole, only you and the nicotine cloud in this battle for control over your lungs. Lysander releases you at once, clattering back to his knees. “You think you’re Oleander, Prince of Light? Bitch, my name literally starts with an L! Let’s see what you recall now, Oleander.” He chuffs, throwing back his head and wheezing madly as he cackles in evil laughter. The vaporized smog climbs up your nose holes, tickling at the far reaches of your brain. Shadow laps at the corner of your vision, light flashes inside of your skull. Strawberry cheesecake, familiarity. Strawberry cheesecake, memory. Your vision goes black. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l504]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Memory is a strange and fickle thing. It is almost never linear, though this series of memories seems to be. You, a Prince of Shadow in your swagged out white armor. Lysander, a Prince of Light in his swagged out black cloak. The two of you stand smiling, Lysander’s hand clasped around your shoulder. He’s taken up vaping just today. Strawberry Cheesecake is his favorite flavor. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l505]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You make your way through strange and winding greenhouse, your brother’s voice echoing from the frosted walls. He sings the lyrics you chose at the quiz in the character creator at the start of this book, and you sing back. “Harmonize with me,” he laughs, and so you do. You two sound really good. When finally you find him, he beams, a smile so bright he could only be blessed by light itself. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l506]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You and Lysander sit at the long ends of a feast table, flinging forkfuls of food at one another when your parents aren’t looking. Your father sighs dreamily. “Golly,” he says. “I sure do love being king. I’ll rule forever probably, idk.” When he says this, the room darkens. As does your heart. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l507]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Oleander,” Lysander gasps at your back. You, white armor tarnished with thick drippings of red. You, golden sword held clasped tightly in your hand. You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. Your father lies dead in front of you, his blood spilling down the steps of the dais. The light in the room bends to your darkness as you glimpse the corpse single mindedly. The crown. You need the crown. But first, you kneel in the puddled blood. It refuses to sink into the velvet below, refuses to hide what you’ve done. You steal your dead father’s cool shoes, a pair of shining white sneakers, right from his cooling feet. You hear Lysander sob in agony. “Brother!” he screams. “How could you do this?!” You exchange your boots for your new spoils of patricide, rising to your feet and turning to your brother slowly. “It’s my rightful throne,” you say to him. “That was our father,” Lysander cries. “Oleander, don’t make me do this. The prophecy didn’t need to be us. It didn’t need to end with us.” You raise your gilded blade, walking steadily towards him. The blood beneath your feet squelches wetly with every measured step. “Don’t make me do <i>this</i>, brother. All you need do is kneel to me, pledge yourself to my rule.” Lysander pauses a moment, fear flashing both his one brown eye and also in his bright husky blue one. He considers his actions carefully as you close in. Finally, he screams. “Navy! Navy!” he yells, and his fiancee, probably girlfriend at that time, rushes in. Lysander wastes no time pulling out his vape, huffing and puffing up clouds of heavy strawberry cheesecake. Navy’s hands twist the clouds with whooshing wind magic until finally, the throne room billows with the power of a twister, the kind the midwestern United States runs weekly alarm drills for. The great tornado rises up, twisting up the velvet floor runner in its pull. Lysander looks at you solemnly. You can’t hear him over the whooshing, but you know the words as they die on his lips. “Goodbye brother,” he says to you, one tear running down his cheek masculinely as you’re taken away in the twister far, far from New Delphine, all the way to present-day Philadelphia. “We will meet again.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|l508]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This is, at last, the truth. All of it laid nakey and bare before you. You are the Prince of Shadow, like it’s been foreshadowed this whole time by everyone outright calling you the Prince of Shadow while you insist you’re the Prince of Light. It’s the kind of plot twist you would find in a story like this where the authors are banking on you skimming through all 40 something thousand words of the novel for smut keywords that catch your eye like quivering sex or twitching member sunk hilt deep or aching, pulsating cunt or honestly just the words throbbing cock or desperate groan or grind or mound or some other horrible euphemism that sounds less like sex is happening and more like some strange wet construction work is going on in the bedroom or else dramatic, puddle-deep lines you can annotate in perfect pastel yellow highlighter and a little tab to post on your social media timeline or make a reaction video to later. But that’s not important and honestly, besides the point. You, Oleander, Prince of long-realized Shadows are evil, a murderer and a liar soaked in blood and ambition. It’s never felt better. You smirk – no – you <i>sneer</i> at your jarred brother, still awkwardly kneeling. The dancing anime girls are frozen in reflections of fear on his armor. “Well, brother,” you smirk. “It appears there’s an end to this.” He manages a smirk from the corner of his bloodied mouth, his hair roguishly tousled from getting his ass kicked by you and your use of Overwhelming Violence. “What do you have to say for yourself, Oleander, Prince of Shadow?” You open your [[mouth:|l509]]

<h1><i>“Isoetes</i></h1> From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia <b><i>Isoetes</i></b>, commonly known as the <b>quillworts</b>, is a genus of lycopod. It is the only living genus in the family Isoetaceae and order Isoetales. As of 2016, there were about 200 recognized species,<sup>[1]</sup> with a cosmopolitan distribution mostly in aquatic habitats but with the individual species often scarce to rare. Species virtually identical to modern quillworts have existed since the Jurassic epoch,<sup>[2]</sup> though the timing of the origin of modern <i>Isoetes</i> is subject to considerable uncertainty.<sup>[3]</sup> The name of the genus may also be spelled <i>Isoëtes</i>. The diaeresis (two dots over the e) indicates that the o and the e are to be pronounced in two distinct syllables. Including this in print is optional; either spelling (<i>Isoetes</i> or <i>Isoëtes</i>) is correct.<sup>[4]</sup> <h2>Description</h2> Quillworts are mostly aquatic or semi-aquatic in clear ponds and slow-moving streams, though several (e.g. <i>I. butleri</i>, <i>I. histrix</i> and <i>I. nuttallii</i>) grow on wet ground that dries out in the summer. The quillworts are spore-producing plants and highly reliant on water dispersion. Quillworts have different ways to spread their spores based on the environment. Quillwort leaves are hollow and quill-like, with a minute ligule at the base of the upper surface.<sup>[5]: 7</sup> arising from a central corm. The sporangia are sunk deeply in the leaf bases. Each leaf will either have many small spores or fewer large spores. Both types of leaf are found on each plant.<sup>[6]</sup> Each leaf is narrow, 2–20 centimetres (0.8–8 in) long (exceptionally up to 100 cm or 40 in) and 0.5–3.0 mm (0.02–0.12 in) wide; they can be either evergreen, winter deciduous, or dry-season deciduous. Only 4% of total biomass, the tips of the leaves, is chlorophyllous.<sup>[7]</sup> The roots broaden to a swollen base up to 5 mm (0.2 in) wide where they attach in clusters to a bulb-like, underground rhizome characteristic of most quillwort species, though a few (e.g. <i>I. tegetiformans</i>) form spreading mats. This swollen base also contains male and female sporangia, protected by a thin, transparent covering (<i>velum</i>), which is used diagnostically to help identify quillwort species. They are heterosporous. Quillwort species are very difficult to distinguish by general appearance. The best way to identify them is by examining their megaspores under a microscope. Moreover, habitat, texture, spore size, and velum provide features that distinguish Isoëtes taxa.<sup>[8]</sup> They also possess a vestigial form of secondary growth in the basal portions of its cormlike stem, an indication that they evolved from larger ancestors.<sup>[9]</sup> <h2>Biochemistry and genetics</h2> Quillworts use crassulacean acid metabolism (CAM) for carbon fixation. Some aquatic species do not have stomata and the leaves have a thick cuticle which prevents CO<sub>2</sub> uptake, a task that is performed by their hollow roots instead, which absorb CO<sub>2</sub> from the sediment.<sup>[10]</sup> This has been studied extensively in <i>Isoetes andicola.</i><sup>[7]</sup> CAM is normally considered an adaptation to life in arid environments to prevent water loss with the plants opening their stomata at night rather than in the heat of the day. This allows CO<sub>2</sub> to enter and minimises water loss. As mostly submerged aquatic plants, quillworts do not lack water and the use of CAM is considered to avoid competition with other aquatic plants for CO<sub>2</sub> during daytime.<sup>[11]</sup> The first detailed quillwort genome sequence, of <i>I. taiwanensis</i>,<sup>[12]</sup> showed that there were differences from CAM in terrestrial plants. CAM involves the enzyme phosphoenolpyruvate carboxylase (PEPC) and plants have two forms of the enzyme. One is normally involved in photosynthesis and the other in central metabolism. From the genome sequence, it appears that in quillworts, both forms are involved in photosynthesis. In addition, circadian expression of key CAM pathway genes peaked at different times of day than in angiosperms.<sup>[13]</sup> These fundamental differences in biochemistry suggest that CAM in quillworts is probably another example of convergent evolution of CAM during the more than 300 million years since the genus diverged from other plants. However, they may also be because of differences between life in water and in the air.<sup>[12]</sup> The genome sequence also provided two insights into its structure. First, genes and repeated non-coding regions were fairly evenly distributed across all the chromosomes. This is similar to genomes of other non-seed plants, but different from the seed plants (angiosperms) where there are distinctly more genes at the ends of chromosomes. Secondly, there was also evidence that the whole genome had been duplicated in the ancient past.<sup>[12]</sup> There are species that switch from CAM to C3 photosynthesis when they go from being submerged in water to living terrestrially, and develop stomata on their leaves. Some species (<i>I. palmeri</i>, <i>I. lechleri</i> and <i>I. karsteni</i>), even under aerial conditions, rarely form stomata, and in some cases (<i>I. triquetra</i> and <i>I. andina</i>) appear to have completely lost the ability to produce stomata.<sup>[14]</sup> <h2>Reproduction</h2> <h3>Overview</h3> Like all land plants, <i>Isoetes</i> undergoes an alternation of generations between a diploid sporophyte stage and a sexual haploid gametophyte stage. However, the dominance of one stage over the other has shifted over time. The development of vascular tissue and subsequent diversification of land plants coincides with the increased dominance of the sporophyte and reduction of the gametophyte. <i>Isoetes</i>, as members of the Lycopodiopsida class, are part of the oldest extant lineage that reflects this shift to a sporophyte dominant lifecycle. In closely related lineages, such as the extinct <i>Lepidodendron</i>, spores were dispersed by the sporophyte through large collections of sporangia called strobili for wind-based spore dispersal.<sup>[15]</sup> However, <i>Isoetes</i> are small heterosporous semi-aquatic plants, with different reproductive needs and challenges than large tree-like land plants. <h3>Description</h3> Like the rest of the Lycopodiopsida class, <i>Isoetes</i> reproduces with spores.<sup>[16]</sup> Among the lycophytes, both <i>Isoetes</i> and the Selaginellaceae (spikemosses) are heterosporous, while the remaining lycophyte family Lycopodiaceae (clubmosses) is homosporous.<sup>[17]</sup> As heterosporous plants, fertile Isoetes sporophytes produce megaspores and microspores, which develop in the megasporangia and microsporangia.<sup>[18]</sup> These spores are highly ornate and are the primary way by which species are identified, although no one functional purpose of the intricate surface patterns is agreed upon.<sup>[19]</sup> The megasporangia occur within the outermost microphylls (single-veined leaves) of the plant while the microsporangia are found in the innermost microphylls.<sup>[20]</sup> This pattern of development is hypothesized to improve the dispersal of the heavier megaspore.<sup>[16]</sup> These spores then germinate and divide into mega- and micro- gametophytes.<sup>[18][21][22]</sup> The microgametophytes have antheridia, which in turn produce sperm.<sup>[22]</sup> The megagametophytes have archegonia, which produce egg cells.<sup>[22]</sup> Fertilization takes place when the motile sperm from a microgametophyte locates the archegonia of a megagametophyte and swims inside to fertilize the egg. Outside of heterospory, a distinguishing feature of <i>Isoetes</i> (and <i>Selaginella</i>) from other pteridophytes, is that their gametophytes grow inside the spores.<sup>[18][22][20]</sup> This means that the gametophytes never leave the protection of the spore that disperses them, cracking the perispore (the outer layer of the spore) just enough to allow the passage of gametes. This is fundamentally different from ferns, where the gametophyte is a photosynthetic plant exposed to the elements of its environment. However, containment creates a separate problem for Isoetes, which is that the gametophytes have no way to acquire energy on their own. Isoetes sporophytes solve this problem by provisioning starches and other nutrients to the spores as an energy reserve for the eventual gametophytes.<sup>[22][23]</sup> Although not a homologous process, this provisioning is somewhat analogous to other modes of offspring resource investment in seed-plants, such as fruits and seeds. The extent to which resources provisioned to the megaspore also support the growth of the new sporophyte is unknown in Isoetes. <h3>Dispersal</h3> Spore dispersal occurs primarily in water (hydrochory) but may also occur via adherence to animals (zoochory) and as a result of ingestion (endozoochory).<sup>[16][24]</sup> These are among the reasons suggested for the ornamentations of the spore, with some authors demonstrating that certain patterns seem well-adapted for sticking to relevant animals like waterfowl.<sup>[24]</sup> Another critical element of dispersal is the observation that in some species of <i>Isoetes</i>, the outer coat of megaspores have pockets that trap microspores, a condition known as synaptospory.<sup>[24][25]</sup> Typically, heterospory means that colonization and long-dispersal are more difficult due to the fact that a single spore cannot grow a bisexual gametophyte and thus cannot establish a new population from a single spore as can happen in homosporous ferns.<sup>[26]</sup> <i>Isoetes</i> may mitigate this issue via microspores stuck to megaspores, greatly increasing the possibility of successful fertilization upon dispersal.<sup>[24][25]</sup> <h2>Taxonomy</h2> Compared to other genera, <i>Isoetes</i> is poorly known. The first critical monograph on their taxonomy, written by Norma Etta Pfeiffer, was published in 1922 and remained a standard reference into the twenty-first century.<sup>[27][28]</sup> Even after studies with cytology, scanning electron microscopy, and chromatography, species are difficult to identify and their phylogeny is disputed. Vegetative characteristics commonly used to distinguish other genera, such as leaf length, rigidity, color, or shape are variable and depend on the habitat. Most classification systems for <i>Isoetes</i> rely on spore characteristics, which make species identification nearly impossible without microscopy.<sup>[29]</sup> Some botanists split the genus, separating two South American species into the genus <i>Stylites</i>, although molecular data place these species among other species of Isoetes, so that <i>Stylites</i> does not warrant taxonomic recognition.<sup>[30]</sup> <h3>Evolution</h3> The earliest fossil that has been assigned to the genus is <i>†Isoetes beestonii</i> from the latest Permian<sup>[31]</sup> of New South Wales, Australia, around 252 million years ago.<sup>[32]</sup> However, the relationships of pre-Jurassic isoetaleans to modern <i>Isotetes</i> have been regarded as unclear by other authors.<sup>[2]</sup> <i>Isoetites rolandii</i> from the Late Jurassic of North America has been described as the "earliest clear example of a isoetalean lycopsid containing all the major features uniting modern <i>Isoetes</i>", including the loss of the elongated stem and vegetative leaves. Based on this, it has been stated that "the overall morphology of <i>Isoetes</i> appears to have persisted virtually unchanged since at least the Jurassic".<sup>[2]</sup> The timing of the origin of the crown group is uncertain. Wood <i>et al</i> (2020) asserted there to be no morphological features that define the major clades within <i>Isoetes</i>, and no fossils are known that can be definitively assigned to the crown group.<sup>[2]</sup> While Wood <i>et al.</i> suggested a young origin dating to the early Cenozoic based on molecular clock estimates<sup>[2]</sup>, the results were questioned by Wikström <i>et al.</i> (2023) who regarded the molecular clock as providing no firm evidence for the origin time of the genus, which could date to the Mesozoic or even the late Paleozoic, depending on the calibration method used.<sup>[3]</sup> <h3>Extant species</h3> As of November 2019, <i>Plants of the World Online</i> accepted the following extant species:<sup>[33]</sup> <ul><li><i>I. abyssinica</i> <span class =plont> Chiov.</span></li> <li><i>I. acadiensis</i> <span class =plont>Kott</span></li> <li><i>I. aemulans</i> <span class =plont>J.P.Roux</span></li> <li><i>I. aequinoctialis</i> <span class =plont>Welw. ex A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. alcalophila</i> <span class =plont>S.Halloy</span></li> <li><i>I. alpina</i> <span class =plont>Kirk</span></li> <li><i>I. alstonii</i> <span class =plont>C.F.Reed & Verdc.</span></li> <li><i>I. amazonica</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. anatolica</i> <span class =plont>Prada & Rolleri</span></li> <li><i>I. andicola</i> <span class =plont>Amstutz) L.D.Gómez</span></li> <li><i>I. andina</i> <span class =plont>Spruce ex Hook.</span></li> <li><i>I. appalachiana</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. araucaniana</i> <span class =plont>Macluf & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. asiatica</i> <span class =plont>(Makino) Makino</span></li> <li><i>I. attenuata</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. australis</i> <span class =plont>S.Williams</span></li> <li><i>I. azorica</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. baculata</i> <span class =plont>Hickey & H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. biafrana</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. bischlerae</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. bolanderi</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. boliviensis</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. boomii</i> <span class =plont>Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. boryana</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. boyacensis</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. bradei</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. brasiliensis</i><span class =plont> H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. brevicula</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. butleri</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. cangae</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira, Salino & Stützel</span></li> <li><i>I. capensis</i></li> <li><i>I. caroli</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. caroliniana</i> <span class =plont>(A.A.Eaton) Luebke</span> is regarded by <i>Plants of the World Online</i> as a synonym of <i>I. valida</i> but other sources treat it as a valid species<sup>[34]</sup></li> <li><i>I. chubutiana</i> <span class =plont>Hickey, Macluf & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. coromandelina</i> <span class =plont>L.f.</span></li> <li><i>I. creussensis</i> <span class =plont>Lazare & S.Riba</span></li> <li><i>I. cristata</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. cubana</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. delilei</i> <span class =plont>(Bory) Rothm.</span></li> <li><i>I. dispora</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. dixitii</i> <span class =plont>Shende</span></li> <li><i>I. drummondii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. durieui</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. echinospora</i> <span class =plont>Durieu</span></li> <li><i>I. ecuadoriensis</i> <span class =plont>Aspl.</span></li> <li><i>I. ekmanii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. elatior</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. eludens</i> <span class =plont>J.P.Roux, Hopper & Rhian J.Sm.</span></li> <li><i>I. engelmannii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. escondidensis</i> <span class =plont>S.Halloy</span></li> <li><i>I. eshbaughii</i> <span class =plont>Hickey & H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. flaccida</i> <span class =plont>Shuttlew.</span></li> <li><i>I. fluitans</i> <span class =plont>M.I.Romero</span></li> <li><i>I. fuliginosa</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. fuscomarginata</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. gardneriana</i> <span class =plont>Kunze</span></li> <li><i>I. georgiana</i> <span class =plont>Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. giessii</i> <span class =plont>Launert</span></li> <li><i>I. gigantea</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. graniticola</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. gunnii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. gymnocarpa</i> <span class =plont>(Gennari) A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. habbemensis</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. hallasanensis</i> <span class =plont>H.K.Choi, Ch.Kim & J.Jung</span></li> <li><i>I. haussknechtii</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Greuter</span></li> <li><i>I. hawaiiensis</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor & W.H.Wagner</span></li> <li><i>I. heldreichii</i> <span class =plont>Wettst.</span></li> <li><i>I. hemivelata</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. herzogii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. hewitsonii</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. hieronymi</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. histrix</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. hopei</i> <span class =plont>J.R.Croft</span></li> <li><i>I. howellii</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. humilior</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. hypsophila</i> <span class =plont>Hand.-Mazz.</span></li> <li><i>I. inflata</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. jaegeri</i> <span class =plont>Pitot</span></li> <li><i>I. jamaicensis</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. japonica</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. jejuensis</i> <span class =plont>H.K.Choi, Ch.Kim & J.Jung</span></li> <li><i>I. junciformis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. karstenii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. killipii</i> <span class =plont>C.V.Morton</span></li> <li><i>I. kirkii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. labri-draconis</i> <span class =plont>N.R.Crouch</span></li> <li><i>I. lacustris</i> <span class =plont>L.</span></li> <li><i>I. laosiensis</i> <span class =plont>C.Kim & H.K.Choi</span></li> <li><i>I. lechleri</i> <span class =plont>Mett.</span></li> <li><i>I. libanotica</i> <span class =plont>Musselman, Bolin & R.D.Bray</span></li> <li><i>I. lithophila</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span></li> <li><i>. longissima</i> <span class =plont>Bory</span></li> <li><i>I. louisianensis</i> <span class =plont>Thieret</span></li> <li><i>I. luetzelburgii</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. macrospora</i></li> <li><i>I. malinverniana</i> <span class =plont>Ces. & De Not.</span></li> <li><i>I. maritima</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span> – maritime quillwort</li> <li><i>I. martii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. mattaponica</i> <span class =plont>Musselman & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. maxima</i> <span class =plont>Hickey, Macluf & Link-Pérez</span></li> <li><i>I. melanopoda</i> <span class =plont>J.Gay & Durieu</span> (<i>I. virginica</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span>)</li> <li><i>I. melanospora</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. melanotheca</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. mexicana</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span> (syn. <i>Isoetes montezumae</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span>)</li> <li><i>I. microvela</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. minima</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. mississippiensis</i> <span class =plont>S.W.Leonard, <i>et al.</i></span></li> <li><i>I. mongerensis</i> <span class =plont>E.R.L.Johnson</span></li> <li><i>I. montana</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. mourabaptistae</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira,<i>et al.</i></span></li> <li><i>I. muelleri</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. naipiana</i> <span class =plont>P.G.Windisch, Lorscheitt. & Nervo</span></li> <li><i>I. nana</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira</span></li> <li><i>I. neoguineensis</i></li> <li><i>I. nigritiana</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. nigroreticulata</i> <span class =plont>Verdc.</span></li> <li><i>I. novogranadensis</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. nuttallii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. occidentalis</i> <span class =plont>L.F.Hend.</span></li> <li><i>I. olympica</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. orcuttii</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. organensis</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. orientalis</i> <span class =plont>Hong Liu & Q.F.Wang</span></li> <li><i>I. ovata</i> <span class =plont>N.Pfeiff.</span></li> <li><i>I. pallida</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. palmeri</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. panamensis</i> <span class =plont>Maxon & C.V.Morton</span></li> <li><i>I. parvula</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. pedersenii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs ex E.I.Meza & Macluf</span></li> <li><i>I. perralderiana</i> <span class =plont>Durieu & Letourn. ex Milde</span></li> <li><i>I. perrieriana</i><span class =plont> Iversen</span></li> <li><i>I. philippinensis</i> <span class =plont>Merr. & L.M.Perry</span></li> <li><i>I. phrygia</i> <span class =plont>Hausskn.</span></li> <li><i>I. piedmontana</i> <span class =plont>(N.Pfeiff.) C.F.Reed</span></li> <li><i>I. pitotii</i> <span class =plont>Alston</span></li> <li><i>I. precocia</i> <span class =plont>R.L.Small & Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. pringlei</i> <span class =plont>Underw.</span></li> <li><i>I. prototypus</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & Goltz</span></li> <li><i>I. pseudojaponica</i> <span class =plont>M.Takamiya, Mits.Watan. & K.Ono</span></li> <li><i>I. pusilla</i> <span class =plont>C.R.Marsden & Chinnock</span></li> <li><i>I. quiririensis</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira & Labiak</span></li> <li><i>I. ramboi</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. riparia</i> <span class =plont>Engelm. ex A.Braun</span> (syn <i>I. hyemalis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span>)</li> <li><i>I. sabatina</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Azzella</span></li> <li><i>I. saccharata</i> <span class =plont>Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. sahyadrii</i> <span class =plont>Mahab.</span></li> <li><i>I. saracochensis</i><span class =plont> Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. savatieri</i><span class =plont> Franch.</span></li> <li><i>I. schweinfurthii</i> <span class =plont>A.Br.</span></li> <li><i>I. sehnemii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. septentrionalis</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. serracarajensis</i> <span class =plont>J.B.S.Pereira, Salino & Stützel</span></li> <li><i>I. setacea</i> <span class =plont>Lam.</span></li> <li><i>I. sinensis</i> <span class =plont>T.C.Palmer</span> (synonym <i>I. coreana</i> <span class =plont>Y.H.Chung & H.K.Choi)</span></li> <li><i>I. smithii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. spannagelii</i> <span class =plont>H.P.Fuchs</span></li> <li><i>I. spinulospora</i> <span class =plont>C.Jermy & Schelpe</span></li> <li><i>I. stellenbossiensis</i> <span class =plont>A.V.Duthie</span></li> <li><i>I. stephanseniae</i> <span class =plont>A.V.Duthie</span></li> <li><i>I. stevensii</i> <span class =plont>J.R.Croft</span></li> <li><i>I. storkii</i> <span class =plont>T.C.Palmer</span></li> <li><i>I. taiwanensis</i> <span class =plont>De Vol</span></li> <li><i>I. tamaulipana</i> <span class =plont>Mora-Olivo, A.Mend. & Mart.-Aval.</span></li> <li><i>I. tegetiformans</i> <span class =plont>Rury</span></li> <li><i>I. tenella</i> <span class =plont>Léman ex Desv.</span></li> <li><i>I. tennesseensis</i> <span class =plont>Luebke & Budke</span></li> <li><i>I. tenuifolia</i> <span class =plont>Jermy</span></li> <li><i>I. tenuissima</i> <span class =plont>Boreau</span></li> <li><i>I. texana</i> <span class =plont>Singhurst, Rushing & W.C.Holmes</span></li> <li><i>I. todaroana</i> <span class =plont>Troìa & Raimondo</span></li> <li><i>I. toximontana</i> <span class =plont>Musselman & J.P.Roux</span></li> <li><i>I. transvaalensis</i> <span class =plont>C.Jermy & Schelpe</span></li> <li><i>I. triangula</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. tripus</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun</span></li> <li><i>I. truncata</i> <span class =plont>Clute</span></li> <li><i>I. tuckermanii</i> <span class =plont>A.Braun ex Engelm.</span></li> <li><i>I. tuerckheimii</i> <span class =plont>Brause</span></li> <li><i>I. udupiensis</i> <span class =plont>P.K.Shukla, G.K.Srivast., S.K.Shukla & P.K.Rajagopal</span></li> <li><i>I. ulei</i> <span class =plont>U.Weber</span></li> <li><i>I. valida</i> <span class =plont>Clute</span></li> <li><i>I. vanensis</i> <span class =plont>M.Keskin & G.Zare</span></li> <li><i>I. vermiculata</i> <span class =plont>Hickey</span></li> <li><i>I. viridimontana</i> <span class =plont>M.A.Rosenthal & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. weberi</i> <span class =plont>Herter</span></li> <li><i>I. welwitschii</i> <span class =plont>A.Br. ex Kuhn</span></li> <li><i>I. wormaldii</i> <span class =plont>Sim</span></li> <li><i>I. yunguiensis</i> <span class =plont>Q.F.Wang & W.C.Taylor</span></li></ul> Many species, such as the Louisiana quillwort and the mat-forming quillwort, are endangered species. Several species of <i>Isoetes</i> are commonly called <b>Merlin's grass</b>, especially <i>I. lacustris</i>, but also the endangered species <i>I. tegetiformans.</i> <h3>Hybrids</h3> <ul><li><i>I. × altonharvillii</i> <span class =plont>Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × brittonii</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × bruntonii</i> <span class =plont>Knepper & Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × carltaylorii</i> <span class =plont>Musselman</span></li> <li><i>I. × dodgei</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. × eatonii</i> <span class =plont>R.Dodge</span> – Eaton's quillwort</li> <li><i>I. × echtuckerii</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. × fairbrothersii</i> <span class =plont>J.D.Montgom. & W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × foveolata</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span></li> <li><i>I. × gopalkrishnae</i> <span class =plont>S.K.Singh, P.K.Shukla & N.K.Dubey</span></li> <li><i>I. × harveyi</i> <span class =plont>A.A.Eaton</span> (syn. <i>I. × heterospora</i> <span class =plont>Eaton</span>)</li> <li><i>I. × herb-wagneri</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor</span></li> <li><i>I. × hickeyi</i> <span class =plont>W.C.Taylor & Luebke</span></li> <li><i>I. × jeffreyi</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. × marensis</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> <li><i>I. × michinokuana</i> <span class =plont>M.Takamiya, Mits.Watan. & K.Ono</span></li> <li><i>I. × novae-angliae</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt. & D.M.Britton</span></li> <li><i>I. × paratunica</i> <span class =plont>D.F.Brunt., Mochalova & A.A.Bobrov</span></li> <li><i>I. × pseudotruncata</i> <span class =plont>D.M.Britton & D.F.Brunt.</span></li> </ul> <h3>Fossil species</h3> <ul><li><i>†Isoetes beestonii</i> <span class =plont>Retallack</span> (Permian, Australia)<sup>[32][31]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes bulbiformis</i> <span class =plont>Drinnan</span> (Cretaceous, Australia)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†lsoetes ermayinensis</i> <span class =plont>Wang</span> (Triassic, China)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes gramineoides</i> <span class =plont>Bock</span> (Triassic, US)<sup>[35]</sup></li> <li><i>†Isoetes hillii</i> <span class =plont>D.M. Britton</span> (Miocene, Tasmania)<sup>[36][37]</sup></li></ul> (Wikimedia Foundation, 2025)” “Eurgh. Fuck,” your brother hisses between his teeth. “You <i>have</i> learned.” “I know,” you smirk. ““Wikimedia Foundation (2025, February 18). <i>Isoetes</i>. Wikipedia. Retrieved May 5, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isoetes” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[l5010]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Fuck!” Lysander howls. “I thought you would have forgotten.” “I’m better than you, brother. I’ve embraced Overwhelming Violence, shadow, and evil, brother – you have shown me as much. You’ve reminded me of my alpha ways, unlocked my true potential. But I don’t plagiarize,” you sneer. “That’d be really beta and fucked up of me.” “Yeah,” Lysander agrees. You heft Lysander’s sword from the ground, feeling the blade in your hands. Perfectly balanced with its blade of pale steel and handle of jet and iron. The perfect weapon to kill a king with, his own badge of authority and office, his own weapon, beautifully and perfectly crafted for this moment. As if it were prophesied, because it was. The flat of it rests nicely against Lysander’s cheek, the blade fogging a little with each vapey exhale. He looks at it with fear. That feels…. Nice. “So this is it, brother. At long last. The prophecy is complete. I will reclaim what is rightfully mine, what you have taken from me – no, what you thought you could take from me. It was always mine, by right. Rightfully.” Lysander looks at you with wide eyes, his mouth blood lurid red against his pale skin. You’ve hurt him. Your brother. You’ll do worse before the day is done. “Are you ready to see mother and father?” you ask, Lysander’s bloody lip trembling a little from its smirk. “You’ll get to join them soon in whatever pit of non-denominational hell they indubitably occupy. And then I’ll be alone to rule the kingdom, as is my rightful right.” Alone. Lysander sees your moment of pause. “Alone,” he echoes, before shaking his head. “But not alone, I suppose. You’ve just made approximately seven new friends today, should you go this route.” You turn to see the seven women of dubious but ultimately erring on the side of evil moral inclination standing in the doorway, wielding glowsticks. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["You’re right."|curbstomp]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [["But I won’t have my brother."|reconcile]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You chuckle deeply, your voice sinking into your throat. “Heh. You were always right, brother. I’ll never be alone, especially if I’ve got your harem serving me.” You think your brother looks afraid. You want your brother to look afraid. You’re going to make this really, really gross and painful and upsetting for honestly, everyone involved. The only parts of your respective plot armor that don’t require extreme effort or convenient minigames to breach is your exposed face. You’re gonna break your brother’s stupid, smirking face for the sake of prophecy. “I hope it makes you happy,” Lysander smirks for the last time as you abandon the sword, its glittering length tinkling across the floor. “I hope it’s everything you wanted it to be.” “SHUT UP AND DIE!” you reply really, really coolly, swinging a plot-armored fist at your brother’s jaw, the resonant cracking of metal against bone and the splitting of flesh the loudest sound other than the pervasive nightcore and your shouting and heavy breathing. He crumbles from a knee to lie on his back, dark gauntlets guarding a broken jaw as he turns to hide his face more, spitting molars and gobs of blood into the carpet. You punch the back of his head, his neck where it emerges from the armor, the side of his face as he turns in agony, anything you can reach. The cartilage of his ear tears, caught on the ridged knuckle of your gauntlet, his white-blonde hair drenched flat to his head with blood, the crimson of it, iron scented sickening, intoxicating. He curls into a little ball, crying out weakly as you raise bloodied, gorey gauntlet decorated with bits of flesh and flecks of blood again. His face - swollen where you ruptured his brow, bruise blossoming across temple to darken pale white eye and the bridge of his mashed nose - is barely recognizable. But still the same as yours. You endeavor to change that, to shut that azure eye that matches yours too well forever. His skull surrenders shortly. The likeness is lost then. He doesn’t resemble anything now, just weird lumps of flesh, teeth and goop and stringy, clumpy gore and snot all laid out on the dancefloor, the multicolored lights staining the mess interesting mostly-red shades. You retch for good measure, any attempt to clean your hands on anything just deepening the stain. His blood drips from you, coats you, stains you irrevocably. The anime girls seem to freeze without the video pausing, their reflections in the pooling blood horrified at what you’ve done, at what you’ve become. You retch again but decide to search through his pockets anyways. If there’s one thing violent video games taught you, it’s that the boss of a level always has good loot. And you also want that damn DweebBar. You find it in one deep, tricked out pocket, taking it in your bloodsoaked, filthy hands and raising it shakily to your lips. You take a deep breath. Nothing happens. You curse and howl, kicking your brother’s limp corpse in rage. <<if $pesisclass is "large">>At this point, you also notice that he’s wearing your signature white sneakers. You’re kinda a sneakerhead, and considering he doesn’t even have a head, that’s kinda unfair of him to still be wearing your sneakers. Even if they’re not entirely white now – the gore got to them, they’re ruddy and pinkish and it’ll probably stain. But this is about the principle. You pry them off your brother’s limp feet, and note that he wasn’t wearing socks. You retch again.<</if>> Trophy in hand, you look at the equally horrified (well, most of them are horrified. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> has a strange expression on <span class = ilya>her</span> face that you don’t want to interpret, lest you learn too much about <span class = ilya>her</span>) harem still standing in the doorway. You quiff your hair perfectly, a rivulet of your brother’s blood trickling down your face. “Change in plans,” you smirk evilly. “New Delphine is under new management.” <<if $clarissaromanced is true>><<button [[CONTINUE|curbstomp breakup]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "balcony above the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>> <<if $dickwet is true>><<button [[CONTINUE|curbstomp dick wet]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>> <<if $clarissaromanced is false>><<button [[CONTINUE|curbstomp dick NOT wet]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>>

Sure, he leaves pubes on the toilet seat, but he’s still your brother. “Yeah, I’d have approximately seven or so new friends, all of whom showed up whenever they did during our battle to party in your doorway with glowsticks. But then I wouldn’t have my <i>brother</i>.” You cast aside the sword in your hand, letting its glittering length tinkle to the floor. For a moment, you catch a whiff of something, and think that Lysander may have also tinkled on the floor. That’s kind of reasonable, because you did hold a sword up to his head like you were going to kill him with it. Dropping to your knees, you clasp his shoulders in your hands, pulling your brother tightly into a strong, mannish, brotherly embrace. All of the girls in the room except for <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Harrow and Dr. Moreau and Isolde and Kitridge so honestly it’s just Igraine and Clarizza, and even the anime girls in the AMVs going “awww.” “I can’t kill you, Lysander,” you say, shaking your head. “Violence only begets more violence and I’m sorry I tried, but look at us now, Shadow and Light. If you can forgive me, please. We could rule together, damn their bloody prophecies.” Lysander smirks at you, and finally you notice all of the light in his eyes, not just from the strobing lights and the LED screens with the anime girls all around you. He only tried to protect you, to keep you from yourself. He did also definitely try to curbstomp you to blast your ass back to Philadelphia, but that’s nothing an older brother doesn't already do on any average Tuesday. “Heh. Oleander, you and I, ruling side by side… I never thought I’d see the day. I forgive you, brother.” All of the girls (except for <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Harrow and Dr. Moreau and Isolde and Kitridge) go “awwww” again. It is in this moment that Navy parts through the glowstick-wielding crowd, shaking a paper bag with a smoke shop logo emblazoned on it. “What did I miss?” she asks, and all of the girls laugh like some really weird sitcom backing track. You, approximately seven or so friends of dubious morality, and your cool older brother at your back. You are unstoppable. Oh wait. “Oh wait,” you say, pulling back from your hug with pee-pee boy Lysander. He definitely pissed himself. “Can I use your laptop to pay off my student loans now?” you ask. “Yeah,” he says. "Thanks," you say, before leaning in to whisper. "I won't even tell the hoes that you peed yourself." "That's still really reductive of you," Lysander says, before realizing he really doesn't want a room full of girls laughing at him. "I mean, thanks, Oleander. The password is Ass—space—not the word space, like there's a space in it—Word." "Sick." You pay off your student loans to kick off your reign debt-free. <<if $clarissaromanced is true>><<button [[CONTINUE|reconciled breakup]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "balcony above the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>> <<if $dickwet is true>><<button [[CONTINUE|reconciled dick wet]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>> <<if $clarissaromanced is false>><<button [[CONTINUE|reconciled dick NOT wet]]>><<set $chapter to "The Epilogue of the Ballad of Shadows and Light">><<set $location to "the great hall, new delphine">><</button>><</if>>

Your ancestors watch you today, welcoming beloved Son of Shadow home. Their portraits line the halls as you walk, painted eyes lingering on your every move. The generations who came before, ticking down to your brother, to you, to fated destiny. Did any of them ever have to make the same decision you do now? For the betterment of this kingdom they loved, what were they willing to give up? You come to rest at a blur of pink. The petal-haired prophetess of two ages past, the queen who raised New Delphine up from the ashes. Her portrait stares out at you, eyes crossed, tongue splayed out for the world to see—the very same eyes that foresaw the future, the very same tongue that dripped with prophecy like venom. That damned fated prophecy, the one that prophesied you, son of soothsayer and noble blood. It condemns you now. One day, your roguishly handsome mug will join the petal-haired queen of olde on this wall, and a new son or daughter of Light and Shadow will pass you by. A new son or daughter whose hair does not gleam golden, unless your genetics prove to be really strong. A new son or daughter without crooked smile, the one you so adore. A new son or daughter born of practicality, not love. You can love them anyway, you think. You hope. She waits for you now, out on the balcony. You’d like to linger here a moment, in the Before of the end. There’s no going back once what’s done is done. In this life, though, you must be brave enough to hurt. For her, you must be bold enough to bid goodbye. You suck in a breath and press on, pushing open the doors to the balcony. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|curbstomp breakup 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You smack the top of the door frame as you enter the <<if $pesisclass is "large">>small<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>cavernous<</if>> throne room, arriving fashionably late to your own coronation. Iridescent light pours in through high arching windows, casting long shadows on the land of New Delphine and all that it owns. <span class = ilya>The Executioner</span> rests easily against a pillar, head tipped to the side in amusement. <span class = ilya>“It’s about time, Bitch…” she</span> says in that weird fucking font <span class = ilya>she</span> uses. “What’s up, you fucks?” you tip your crown to the crowd when you ascend the dais, crushed starlight at your brow glimmering and glinting as you take place at your new throne. A Prince of Shadow they called you, and so a King of Shadow you shall be—the inky black stone resting below you shifts and twists in beam of light, dancing in the corners of your vision. Your armor is still all-white though, because you have to match your signature sneakers <<if $pesisclass is "large">> that you stole back<</if>>. You keep the memory of your loser brother and the way you curb stomped his sorry ass well, having destroyed the gleaming throne of light to craft your crown. “Anyway,” you say, leaning back into your throne, resting one ankle upon your knee. You raise your stolen goods—Lysander’s vape—to your lips. “I’m already here, and I’m king because I say so. We’re so back. Let’s get it.” The stained glass windows dim to LED screens, darkening the room but for their artificial brightness. Visions of anime girls begin to dance as a laser light show begins, loudspeakers blaring to life. When you go to provide fog for the party with your powerful and non-asthmatic and not-yet-honeycombed lungs—the little light on the vape blinks red, emptied of nicotine and juice. It’s dead. Just like your brother, you guess. You kinda frown a little bit. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|cdNw 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Clarissa waits for you there, freckled face held high to the sun. Her nose crinkles as spring breeze weaves tangles into thin hair, eyes scrunching shut against playful orange rays. The sun falls kindly onto her, you think. Perhaps it loves her half as much as you do. She keeps herself well entertained—you hear a squeal of delight as the wind gusts strongly, and she falls away from the railing giggling to herself. It’s only now that she seems to notice your arrival, straightening before settling back into her casual, slumped posture. Grinning at you in a grimacelike sort of way, her pink tongue squeezes against the backs of her teeth, peeking through gaps of those missing or broken. “Hey, Oleander,” she chuckles apologetically, twisting raw circles round her forearm. You watch her, offering a slow nod as you make your way to the stone railing. “Hey, Clarissa,” you breathe as your chest constricts around your words. She basks in the vision of you in new armor, staring. She likes to stare, you think, as you watch her take thumbnail to her mouth, begin gnawing gingerly. Not that you mind. When finally she takes small, tentative steps toward you, offering her free hand, you engulf it within your own. “Look how much bigger my hands are,” you say, finally letting your demons win out. Her breath hitches in her throat, stifling her, freezing her in place as wide eyes linger on your hand over her own. “Yeah,” Clarissa nods, stilted, stuttering. “I, um. I missed you. I knew you would be able to do it.” “I couldn’t come back to you if I didn’t.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|curbstomp breakup 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Love is not meant to be selfish. It is meant to be patient and kind, to search for you at every ill-advised corner of the earth and offer its warm hand, time and time again, to bring you back home. Love is meant to follow you there, to walk at your back toward the end you face bravely on. When tragedy or life come knocking at your door, love is meant to wait for you, lantern in hand, when it slips from your grasp before you are ready. You are not love. You are the dark corners of the earth that you find your feet drawing nearer towards, the shadowy unknown we all walk headfirst into one day. You are the dark the porch light begs to keep away, the crawling silhouettes the flicker of the lantern creates on the wall. You are not love. You are selfish. You know why you’ve come here and yet, you take her face into your hands. You know why you’ve called her here and yet, you press your lips into hers, warmth tethering itself to warmth. Her split lip smarts against your kiss, this you know as she winces against you, the sound soft and muffled, as if to keep the sting a secret. You would like her to remember the sting. To remember the way that it aches, the heat that rises to the surface and licks at the threat of a reopened wound, to commemorate this moment here, with you, in this way. You kiss her more boldly, more fully, until there is no crown between the two of you, no impending heartache to be felt. There is the beat of your still-living heart in the breastplate of your armor, the thundering of rushing blood crashing in your ears. There is her breath against yours and fingers that work deftly to undo, just enough to graze skin, to beg to know one another in a way that only lovers can do. “I know why we’re here,” she says, breaking away from you and your frenzy and your desperation. “Sort of,” she murmurs as you press a creeping kiss to her chin, her jaw, her neck. “Why are we here?” you ask. When your fingertips press into her skin, you hope that it bruises. “You’re a king now.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|curbstomp breakup 4]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

The words are sobering, staggering. You pull your hands away from the hem of her shirt, releasing her from your grasp quicker than you’d like to. “I am,” you bow your head. “And I’m just a Rizzler.” That is really, for real, her job title. Still, she is no fool, though you would have her be yours. “Yeah,” you say. She fidgets with her own hands. Your fingers miss hers. “I don’t want you to say it.” Her voice cracks when she speaks. You, boy of shadow, could not hope to be as unselfish in your lifetime as love begs you to be. Maybe She could be, though, your little love whose eyes brim with sparkling tears now. Clarissa rubs her arms, wipes her face on sweaty palms. “Um,” her voice wavers. She does not look you in the eye, not here and now. “I get it. You have king and country and other duties to attend to, I get it.” Her face becomes blotchy when she cries. Blotchy and pink and you miss the way the red ran to her face just moments before, when she could be your own to keep. She sniffles, wiping her face on the inside of her shirt, before forcing her chin upwards to look you in the eye. “For what it’s worth, you really do look like a king. Bye, Oleander. I love you.” You are left alone on the balcony. Your ancestors will watch her leave, and they will know what you relinquish to join them on the walls. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|curbstomp dick NOT wet][$location to "the great hall, new delphine"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You can’t frown for long, though, because look at this tricked out party in your honor. “Mom, you would not believe this shit,” you say as you look down at the very same spot she died in just like, yesterday. Kitty cleaned up this throne room really fast, and you’re about to trash it again. One prophesied king and a new queen to boot, this kingdom has really got a lot to celebrate today. Igraine bounces at your side, grinning madly. She’s replaced her real flower crown for a flashing glow stick wreath to stay on-theme, but you are no fool, and know she wears it as a warning—now that she’s acquired a title, she won’t let anyone forget her rightful place as queen. To be honest, she wasn’t your first choice. You had approached the approximately seven or so evil women earlier, rubbing your hands together like a fly, and asked if they’d be interested in playing 21 Questions with you. It’s just that your first question was to ask if they’d like to become your official harem, and you found out that all but two of them are lesbians. Igraine and Clarissa were both interested, but when Clarissa spoke up, you all had to watch as Igraine descended upon her and beat her to death with her bare hands in front of you. It was really gory, <<if $clarissaromanced is true>> and kind of sad and really fucked up considering you had literally just broken up with Clarissa,<</if>> and Igraine was the only one left interested in you standing, so you decided not to push your luck and to wife her up. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|cdNw 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You bounce your leg in time to the music and bob your head, looking out at your crowd of subjects. The remaining evil lesbian defenders of your court, who are not evil because they are lesbians, because that’s actually really cool of them to be true to themselves like that, but evil because they are evil of their own volition or else evil by association with the systems they uphold intentionally or unintentionally through their actions and inactions, dot the crowd. Navy isn’t here. She’s off being a downer and mourning or something, because you “kIlLeD hEr FiAnCé,” but you did invite her. Dr. Moreau sits at a table in the corner, tax paperwork and an ambiguously 25 to 40 year old woman pulled close. You’d think an undead creature like her would know how to live a little, but she holds both a hip and a pen and squints against the low light. A spotlight aims, flashing upon her, and she nods gratefully. Harrow might as well be about to earn another medal for the sick dance moves she busts down. Since you’re king now and you can make that a reality, you make a mental note to give her another medal for the sick dance moves she pulled out at your coronation party. Yeah. In addition to another medal, she also seems to have earned a harem of her own—when one song ends and transitions to another, she returns back to a crowd of faceless, scantily-clad NPCs, all trying to get closer to her. They pull her in, and she disappears, lost in the sea of women who must be distantly evolved from some species of birds, because they really enjoyed her mating dance. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Kitty linger to the side of the room, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leaned to one side to keep a slinkily long arm draped over Kitty’s short frame. Apparently, they’re too cool to dance. In <span class = ilya>her</span> free hand, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> idly plays with a knife—the very same one <span class = ilya>she</span> gored you with, you think—and tosses it in a high arch above the both of their heads. Kitty gazes upwards, eye open wide, as the knife sails back downward, blade first, beelining toward her. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> catches the handle at the very last second. <span class = ilya><i>”Close one,”</i></span> you think <span class = ilya>she</span> says as you see them both laugh. As <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leans downwards toward Kitty’s face, hunger and strobe light flashing within dead eyes, you decide to look elsewhere, to give them some privacy and spare yourself from watching a really weird makeout scene. You can’t help but feel as though you’re forgetting someone. “Hey,” Igraine says, tapping at your shoulder impatiently. “Do you want to dance with me?” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|cdNw 4]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You would like to dance with her. “Yeah,” you say, as this tiny woman pulls you by the hand and into the crowd. You two get down crazy style, your first dance as king and queen and rulers of this land. From a table nearby, a punch bowl that you didn’t even know would be there, because you definitely don’t remember having anything other than jungle juice on the menu, bubbles suspiciously. Someone taps Igraine on the shoulder and she turns around to talk to them—it’s in this moment that from the fruit punch, like some sort of sea creature, Isolde, lesbian twin sister to your wife, the queen, rises ominously. Removing her long legs from the punch bowl, she sits on the edge of the table, staring wildly into your eyes. “Hello, Oleander.” she says. You gulp. “Hi, Isolde.” She’s told you before that she fears no crown, and you know this to be true. “Remember what I told you,” she says, slowly raising two fingers to her own eyes and pointing them back toward your own. “Killing a king is not so special. You are not the only one who can do so. Do not disappoint my sister. Further than that, you will find that your incredibly average appearance does not color my perception of you as it does for her. In the future, when you find yourself thinking before you act—and you will think before you act—when you think of trying not to disappoint her, think again.” “Think again?” you tug at the neck of your kingly armor nervously, looking around in hopes that literally anyone else can see this shit. “Yes,” she hums. “Think again. Aim higher, King Oleander. You should not only fear disappointing Igraine… you should fear disappointing <i>me.”</i> <<button [[okay.|cdNw 5]]>><</button>>

“10-4,” you say, saluting her. With this, Isolde stands from the table with a smile, leaving a stain of fruit punch in her wake as she leaves to enjoy the party. “Igraine,” you say, tapping your wife’s shoulder. “Igraine, did you just see that shit?” She looks puzzled. “See what shit? There’s a lot going on in here. Oh, baby, Isolde’s here! <i>Look!”</i> she squees, grabbing your wrist. For all of the height advantage you have on her, she has a sort of determination that drags you across the floor with her with ease. “We have to go dance with her! Come on, let’s gOOOOOO!” It would seem this is your life now, King Oleander. The long shadows you cast will find every corner of New Delphine, and prophecy will know that you made it your bitch. But first, it will know that you threw a really sick coronation party. Enjoy. <<button [[CONTINUE|THE END]]>><</button>>

You bounce your leg in time to the music and bob your head, looking out at your crowd of subjects. Several of the approximately seven or so evil women of your brother’s harem, that turned out not to be a harem at all, as your brother was pretty bitchless, dot the crowd. Navy isn’t here. She’s off being a downer and mourning or something, because you “kIlLeD hEr FiAnCé,” but you did invite her. Dr. Moreau sits at a table in the corner, tax paperwork and an ambiguously 25 to 40 year old woman pulled close. You’d think an undead creature like her would know how to live a little, but she simply holds both a hip and a pen and squints against the low light. A spotlight aims, flashing upon her, and she nods gratefully. Harrow might as well be about to earn another medal for the sick dance moves she busts down. Since you’re king now and you can make that a reality, you make a mental note to give her another medal for the sick dance moves she pulled out at your coronation party. Yeah. In addition to another medal, she also seems to have earned a harem of her own—when one song ends and transitions to another, she returns back to a crowd of faceless, scantily-clad NPCs, all trying to get closer to her. They pull her in, and she disappears, lost in the sea of women who must be distantly evolved from some species of birds, because they really enjoyed her mating dance. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Kitty linger to the side of the room, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leaned to one side to keep a slinkily long arm draped over Kitty’s short frame. Apparently, they’re too cool to dance. In <span class = ilya>her</span> free hand, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> idly plays with a knife—the very same one <span class = ilya>she</span> gored you with, you think—and tosses it in a high arch above the both of their heads. Kitty gazes upwards, eye open wide, as the knife sails back downward, blade first, beelining toward her. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> catches the handle at the very last second. <span class = ilya><i>”Close one,”</i></span> you think <span class = ilya>she</span> says as you see them both laugh. As <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leans downwards toward Kitty’s face, hunger and strobe light flashing within dead eyes, you decide to look elsewhere, to give them some privacy and spare yourself from watching a really weird makeout scene. You can’t help but feel as though you might be forgetting a person or two. In your time spent looking at the party, a suspicious punch bowl that wasn’t there before has made its way to the corner of the dais, lurking nearby, but looking at your new queen and her kitty ears, you realize you don’t particularly care. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|cdw 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Clarissa,” you reach a hand out for her wrist, “come here.” Clarissa giggles grossly, pulling the finger she gnaws on out from her mouth. “Okay.” Pulling her down to your level at the throne, you grab her face, hands slipping across thickly painted on glitter, and you both begin to make out <i>so</i> nasty-style. Thank non-denominational god that it’s dark in here, because you two are NOT pretty kissers. Like, you guys are so gross. There’s a lot of tongue and wet noise in there. The doors to the throne room bang open, and there’s a horrible record-scratching sound that pauses the music. The suspicious punch bowl bubbles even more suspiciously, and from the artificial fruit punch flavor rises Isolde, lesbian twin sister to the ambassador, Igraine. Igraine, whose tiny shoes clomp as she stomps your way. “YOU CHOSE THE FUCKING <i>RIZZLER</i>? YOU CHOSE CLA<i>RIZZ</i>A?” she screams. Clarissa stumbles back in fear, and your heart rattles in your chest. Igraine approaches faster. You look to <span class = ilya>The Executioner</span> for help, but <span class = ilya>she</span> looks upon the situation with entirely too much excitement in <span class = ilya>her</span> cold, dead eyes for just a moment before returning to eating Kitridge's face. You look to Isolde, who stands ominously dripping in fruit punch. She does not take her eyes off of yours, but instead, slowly raises a hand, sticking out a thumb. Isolde gives you a thumbs down as Igraine jabs a glow stick swiftly through your eye socket, killing you instantly and creating a succession crisis. <<button [[CONTINUE|THE END]]>><</button>>

Your ancestors watch you today, welcoming beloved Son of Shadow home. Their portraits line the halls as you walk, painted eyes lingering on your every move. The generations who came before, ticking down to your brother, to you, to fated destiny. Did any of them ever have to make the same decision you do now? For the betterment of this kingdom they loved, what were they willing to give up? You come to rest at a blur of pink. The petal-haired prophetess of two ages past, the queen who raised New Delphine up from the ashes. Her portrait stares out at you, eyes crossed, tongue splayed out for the world to see—the very same eyes that foresaw the future, the very same tongue that dripped with prophecy like venom. That damned fated prophecy, the one that prophesied you, son of soothsayer and noble blood. It condemns you now. One day, your roguishly handsome mug will join the petal-haired queen of olde on this wall, and a new son or daughter of Light and Shadow will pass you by. A new son or daughter whose hair does not gleam golden, unless your genetics prove to be really strong. A new son or daughter without crooked smile, the one you so adore. A new son or daughter born of practicality, not love. You can love them anyway, you think. You hope. She waits for you now, out on the balcony. You’d like to linger here a moment, in the Before of the end. There’s no going back once what’s done is done. In this life, though, you must be brave enough to hurt. For her, you must be bold enough to bid goodbye. You suck in a breath and press on, pushing open the doors to the balcony. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|reconciled breakup 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Four white sneakers stride the lavish velvet runner, there, in the <<if $pesisclass is "large">>small<<if $pesisclass is "small">>cavernous<</if<< throne room. Brilliant, opalescent light pours in through high arching windows, bathing the blessed land of New Delphine in all that it owns. Balance at last, prophecy brought to close; lustrous light illuminates the way for winding shadow: Lysander takes the lead in climbing the dais, subject upon subject descending upon bended knee as ruler of All Light parts the crowd with nothing but focused gaze. His oil-slicked cape billows as he turns to face the assembly, guarding the view of two thrones. Lysander’s crystal throne of starlight remains there, twinkling in just the same way his husky blue eye does as he smiles when he sees you. He did not shave for this event, but he seems to have grown a fourth beard hair. To the right of the Throne of Light, stands a new addition to the dais: A solid black throne, deeply colored as the end of all things, carved of stone that glitters and shifts when you allow your gaze to wander across its inky visage. Lysander beckons to your people, and to you, with open hand. “Oleander, Prince of Shadow. Will you kneel?” Not a soul in the room dares breathe. Instead, they look to you. You, in your pearled white armor, gleaming golden sword at your hip. You, Oleander, Prince of Shadow. You, whose sneakers actually match this outfit really well. You bow your head to your brother. And you kneel. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdw 1]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Four white sneakers stride the lavish velvet runner, there, in the <<if $pesisclass is "large">>small<<elseif $pesisclass is "small">>cavernous<</if>> throne room. Brilliant, opalescent light pours in through high arching windows, bathing the blessed land of New Delphine in all that it owns. Balance at last, prophecy brought to close; lustrous light illuminates the way for winding shadow: Lysander takes the lead in climbing the dais, subject upon subject descending upon bended knee as ruler of All Light parts the crowd with nothing but focused gaze. His oil-slicked cape billows as he turns to face the assembly, guarding the view of two thrones. Lysander’s crystal throne of starlight remains there, twinkling in just the same way his husky blue eye does as he smiles when he sees you. He did not shave for this event, but he seems to have grown a fourth beard hair. To the right of the Throne of Light, stands a new addition to the dais: A solid black throne, deeply colored as the end of all things, carved of stone that glitters and shifts when you allow your gaze to wander across its inky visage. Lysander beckons to your people, and to you, with open hand. “Oleander, Prince of Shadow. Will you kneel?” Not a soul in the room dares breathe. Instead, they look to you. You, in your pearled white armor, gleaming golden sword at your hip. You, Oleander, Prince of Shadow. You, whose sneakers actually match this outfit really well. You bow your head to your brother. And you kneel. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdNw 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You face your brother, staring steelily at him like you’re a cowboy (the author’s second favorite group of frequently mythologized people likely to be found on horseback) and not in what is ostensibly a knight’s armor, making you kinda like a knight (the author’s favorite group of frequently mythologized people likely to be found on horseback). “So. I learned a thing or two from the Grand Imperial Battlemaster, Harrow [PLACEHOLDER].” Your brother smirks. “I bet you did.” “For the sake of the kingdom, and the author’s sanity – I’m challenging you to a game of rock, paper, scissors.” “Best five out of seven?” your brother asks, quirking an eyebrow. The smirk remains. “Also what author. We’re totally not cognizant of the fourth wall.” Both Oleander and Lysander turn to look at you. Yes, <i>you</i>. The person reading this. And then they turn back. “Absolutely not,” you say. “Three out of five.” “Five out of seven. Every good playoff series has seven games.” “What do we know about playoffs that have seven games, brother? We’re fans of the dismal New Delphine Sorcerers of no particular sport but probably a made up one.” “Like lacrosse?” “Yeah. And also a certain Philadelphia hockey team that had a fluke 2020 campaign inside the bubble but have been dismal since. We can’t mention their name because the author doesn’t like them and also for the same reason everything else has been off-brand. I digress: the Sorcerers haven’t even thought about going to the Cup for the past decade because of poor management. Even when the draft lottery was all but rigged in our favor thanks to soothsayers and perhaps bribing the commissioner a little bit with real estate and promises we would do really really good because of a past run of three Cup wins in five years – we squandered it.” “Like you’re squandering any sort of narrative momentum. I agree to your terms, brother. Three of five. For the kingdom, for shadow and light.” Lysander smirks. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss1][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win1][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<set _bullshit to random(1,5)>><<if _bullshit is 1>>“Uh. Looks like we gotta do it again, brother,” you say, pointing at your brother’s $playerRPS. “That, we do,” Lysander agrees, flexing his hands. <<elseif _bullshit is 2>>“Hmmm. You’d think the code wouldn’t account for <i>that</i>,” you posit. You point at Lysander’s $playerRPS with your own $playerRPS. “No, I think the author is really cool and smart and thought this through really well,” Lysander smirks. “His wife is cool too. She wrote a lot of the dialogue but not this one. Anyways, she would want us to continue. She wrote most of the endings, too.” <<elseif _bullshit is 3>>“Arm wrestle for this point?” you ask. “Absofuckinglutely not,” Lysander replies sharply. “You’re just afraid of my alpha male arm strength.” “Sure.” Lysander returns to smirking. <<elseif _bullshit is 4>>“How about a dance battle instead?” you suggest. Lysander smirks. “You wouldn’t last a second, brother.” You don’t want to admit he’s right. Back to rock, paper, scissors. Hopefully you won’t tie this time. <<elseif _bullshit is 5>>“We match,” you say really intelligently, gesturing with your $playerRPS hand. “Yeah.” “Don’t think that’s supposed to happen.” “Probably not, nah.” You go back to playing rock, paper, scissors. <</if>> <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss1][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss2][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss3][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win1][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win2][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win3][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“You win,” you whisper hollowly, retracting your hands still futilely held in $playerRPS formation. You frantically prepare yourself for battle, trembling hands held aloft. Your brother surges forwards before you have time to react, sweeping your feet out from underneath you. You’re perpendicular to the ground before you have time to really recognize what he’s done, and he’s tackled you flat to the strobing dancefloor before you have time to react. You slap weakly at his hands, shouting some protest as he messes up your perfect hair with his knuckles. Not punching you, no, that would be kind. He gives you a severe noogie-ing. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss2][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win1][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win2][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win3][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“I win,” you shout, smacking Lysander’s hands with your triumphant $playerRPS. You prepare to do battle, settling into a fighting stance. Your brother rushes you first, leaping into a flying kick that’s really impressive considering the weight of his armor and formerly sedentary position. You sidestep easily. “Heh. Should’ve checked yourself before you wrecked yourself.” “Nobody knows that meme anymore,” Lysander grumbles, extricating himself from the pile of armor he seems to have formed at the base of his dresser. The leg of it broke, and it wobbles a little bit, threatening to crush him like those diagrams on the back of every single piece of furniture ever. “And it’s cringe too.” “Cringe is dead, brother.” You flex your hands, preparing to leap onto your brother if the leaning dresser doesn’t get him first. “Just like you’re about to be.” “I beg to differ.” “Don’t beg, that’ll make this weird,” you backtrack. The dresser crashes down on Lysander, and you’re honestly hoping for a Paper-Thin Preston kind of situation here. But Lysander stands, wiping his brow with a pair of boxer briefs with hearts before tossing them aside and settling back into a fighting stance. “Cringe is illegal in New Delphine. You’re under arrest, should you survive.” “Oh damn,” you respond. You’ve got no choice but to kill him now. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss1][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss2][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss3][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win2][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Oh. Oh no… you win,” you whisper desperately, hollowly, retracting your hands still futilely held in $playerRPS formation. You frantically prepare yourself for battle, trembling hands held aloft. You have tasted defeat before, and pray you will never know such humiliation again. For now – the battle draws nearer. Lysander smirks at you, heterochromic eyes glinting evilly in the fractured light. He moves faster than you can, grisping a hand tightly round your wrist. “No,” you gasp. “Don’t.” He smirks devilishly, quirking an eyebrow and smizing at you. “Don’t what? I’m not doing anything.” With this, he swings your limp hand forcefully into the side of your own head. “Why are you hitting yourself? Why are you hitting yourself?”It’s evil, because you are clearly not hitting yourself of your own volition, and he knows it. “Ah, fuck, come on man,” you say. “Yeah okay,” he says, releasing you before returning to battle stance. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss3][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win1][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win2][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win3][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<if $wins is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win1][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win2][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $wins is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“I win,” you shout, thwacking Lysander’s hands with your triumphant $playerRPS. You prepare to do battle, settling into a fighting stance. Lysander’s smirk dissolves. You lunge forwards, using your speed and strength to your advantage, tossing Lysander into the air with ease and leaping after him to execute a perfect side-scrolling action brawler combo composed of exaggerated kicks and punches. A meter in the corner of your vision climbs steadily and catches fire, shaking as numbers spill out onto the dancefloor. Lysander hits the ground and bounces once, twice, three times in a cloud of pixelated dust before getting up and dusting himself off. “Good luck getting that S rank,” he says, spitting blood. “I don’t need your help on the tough levels anymore,” you sneer. “And it’s my turn on the game anyways. Mom said so.” “No she didn’t! The game is mine anyways, I got it myself for- oh fuck you,” Lysander complains in reply, rolling his eyes and settling back into his rock, paper, scissors stance. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss1][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss2][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|loss3][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|win3][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|tie]] </div></li> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">> <<if $losses is 0>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss1][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 1>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss2][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $losses is 2>><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|loss3][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <</if>> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|win3][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Lysander. Please, mercy, please… you win,” you whisper desperately, hollowly, retracting your hands still futilely held in $playerRPS formation and holding them up in plea, in prayer. When it becomes obvious you can’t forestall your brother, you frantically prepare yourself for battle, trembling hands held aloft. You have tasted defeat before, and know this will be your final humiliation. Lysander approaches, swinging his sword lazily. “You know how this is going to end, brother.” And he’s right. You’ve lost at rock, paper, scissors for the last time. You must reap what you’ve sown. <<button [[congrats.|DIE DIE DIE]]>><</button>>

“I win,” you shout, utterly decimating Lysander’s weak, trembling hands with your triumphant $playerRPS. His eyes grow wide with terror as you prepare to do battle, settling into a fighting stance. Your arm winds up. You jump, slamming the palm of your hand down and dunking Lysander’s head like he’s a dribbled basketball loose in the paint and brother, you’re down one in overtime of game seven. Were he bald, you’re certain it would make a really satisfying slapping noise, but since he is not bald as both of you are extremely blonde, his pain and your victory both will have to be satisfaction enough. <<button [[congrats.|lysander 50% hp]]>><</button>>

Lysander wields his sword like he wields his fists: with great malice and impunity, striking at your plot armor like a toddler whacking a tin can with a hammer with delight. The blade crashes into your armor again and again and again, your conveniently pre-broken ribs fracturing and splintering more, all of your internal bits turning goopier than previous, liquid and getting more liquider as your brother bests you in battle. “Brother,” you whisper hoarsely, your lips painted in gore, your brow adorned not with a crown but exertion, beads of sweat glimmering in the light from the dancing anime girls and the dancefloor. Lysander moves in time, your raised gauntlet just barely deflecting a blow that would leave you like your mother: Decapitated and dead and cold. “Brother, please,” you beg, stumbling back on the dancefloor. The anime girls move in mockery of your stiff, limp-legged wobbling, the sparks of Lysander’s blade winking in laughter. “Please, please – I surrender.” Lysander smirks, though his eyes are filled with bloodlust. “It’s too late for surrender, brother.” “Then mercy,” you manage, bent to a knee as your plot armor clatters with another strike, your pauldron skittering across the floor accompanied by sparkling rings of mail. The blade bites deeply, cutting through quilted padding and your t-shirt. Blood adorns Lysander’s sword brightly. “Mercy, brother. For me, your blood. Shadow to your light, I would serve you before prophecy – please, mercy upon me.” Lysander considers both you and the blood, smirking. “Death to all shadow,” he murmurs, smirking. His sword comes crashing down and you are too weak to block it. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue|triple d2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

The first thing you notice, when you finally have the courage to open your eyes is the smell of asphalt. Which is strange because you were just in a room that smelled like Ancient Zest: Admiral, blood, toes, laundry detergent from the laundry under your brother’s unmade bed, and the faintest, most distant musk of fuck. But here, it’s rain, asphalt, burnt rubber, and blood. The sound of cars is another tell-tale sign that you’re not somewhere you’re supposed to be. That, and the pitter-patter of rain on your face. That’s the second thing you notice. You’re completely soaked through to the bone with rain and the street puddle (a wrapper floats by your head) and something else that you can only assume is blood. Your body is heavy, the third thing you notice. You twitch as you try to manipulate your heavy, rain-sodden limbs. Somewhere, your signature sneakered feet twitch. At least your spine isn’t too badly broken. And then the rest of you twitches, sending wracking agony through your mangled limbs. You make a very dignified groan, trying to reach for the pocket where you presume your waterlogged phone is. The arm you hold up is arm only in that it is a tube of meat more or less attached to your body by a shoulder joint that protests the movement. Everything seems put on backwards, and you make another very dignified noise of anger, fear, and disgust as your stomach lurches against fractured ribs and you spit gross, foamy bile onto yourself. That dumpster looking car from the exploding rocket program company definitely hit you and honestly, if you think about it, you wouldn’t put it past the driver to have tried backing over you to finish you off but ultimately failed because he didn’t pay for the software update that allows him to access reverse. You can only hope someone saw you and took pity on your unconscious, road-burned (your face and just about every other piece of exposed skin (including some skin that wasn’t exposed before) feels like someone took a cheese grater and then a hot iron to it) body twitching in the bus lane gutter and called the ambulance. Or at least a rideshare– ambulances <i>are</i> expensive and you already have student loans you need to pay off. The distant sound of sirens buoys towards you on tides of rain. Everything that you feel like you just experienced is a lie. There is no prophecy. No kingdom. No brother nor mother nor harem nor skill-based minigames meticulously coded. No glorious ending nor plea for mercy. No mercy granted, no brother’s love. Just the rain and the asphalt, the scent of roadway and blood heavy on your skin, your eyes sagging shut. At last, you slip into shadows. <<button [[ok.|THE END]]>><</button>>

Clarissa waits for you there, freckled face held high to the sun. Her nose crinkles as spring breeze weaves tangles into thin hair, eyes scrunching shut against playful orange rays. The sun falls kindly onto her, you think. Perhaps it loves her half as much as you do. She keeps herself well entertained—you hear a squeal of delight as the wind gusts strongly, and she falls away from the railing giggling to herself. It’s only now that she seems to notice your arrival, straightening before settling back into her casual, slumped posture. Grinning at you in a grimacelike sort of way, her pink tongue squeezes against the backs of her teeth, peeking through gaps of those missing or broken. “Hey, Oleander,” she chuckles apologetically, twisting raw circles round her forearm. You watch her, offering a slow nod as you make your way to the stone railing. “Hey, Clarissa,” you breathe as your chest constricts around your words. She basks in the vision of you in new armor, staring. She likes to stare, you think, as you watch her take thumbnail to her mouth, begin gnawing gingerly. Not that you mind. When finally she takes small, tentative steps toward you, offering her free hand, you engulf it within your own. “Look how much bigger my hands are,” you say, finally letting your demons win out. Her breath hitches in her throat, stifling her, freezing her in place as wide eyes linger on your hand over her own. “Yeah,” Clarissa nods, stilted, stuttering. “I, um. I missed you. I knew you would be able to do it.” “I couldn’t come back to you if I didn’t.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|reconciled breakup 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Love is not meant to be selfish. It is meant to be patient and kind, to search for you at every ill-advised corner of the earth and offer its warm hand, time and time again, to bring you back home. Love is meant to follow you there, to walk at your back toward the end you face bravely on. When tragedy or life come knocking at your door, love is meant to wait for you, lantern in hand, when it slips from your grasp before you are ready. You are not love. You are the dark corners of the earth that you find your feet drawing nearer towards, the shadowy unknown we all walk headfirst into one day. You are the dark the porch light begs to keep away, the crawling silhouettes the flicker of the lantern creates on the wall. You are not love. You are selfish. You know why you’ve come here and yet, you take her face into your hands. You know why you’ve called her here and yet, you press your lips into hers, warmth tethering itself to warmth. Her split lip smarts against your kiss, this you know as she winces against you, the sound soft and muffled, as if to keep the sting a secret. You would like her to remember the sting. To remember the way that it aches, the heat that rises to the surface and licks at the threat of a reopened wound, to commemorate this moment here, with you, in this way. You kiss her more boldly, more fully, until there is no crown between the two of you, no impending heartache to be felt. There is the beat of your still-living heart in the breastplate of your armor, the thundering of rushing blood crashing in your ears. There is her breath against yours and fingers that work deftly to undo, just enough to graze skin, to beg to know one another in a way that only lovers can do. “I know why we’re here,” she says, breaking away from you and your frenzy and your desperation. “Sort of,” she murmurs as you press a creeping kiss to her chin, her jaw, her neck. “Why are we here?” you ask. When your fingertips press into her skin, you hope that it bruises. “You’re a king now.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|reconciled breakup 4]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

The words are sobering, staggering. You pull your hands away from the hem of her shirt, releasing her from your grasp quicker than you’d like to. “I am,” you bow your head. “And I’m just a Rizzler.” That is really, for real, her job title. Still, she is no fool, though you would have her be yours. “Yeah,” you say. She fidgets with her own hands. Your fingers miss hers. “I don’t want you to say it.” Her voice cracks when she speaks. You, boy of shadow, could not hope to be as unselfish in your lifetime as love begs you to be. Maybe She could be, though, your little love whose eyes brim with sparkling tears now. Clarissa rubs her arms, wipes her face on sweaty palms. “Um,” her voice wavers. She does not look you in the eye, not here and now. “I get it. You have king and country and other duties to attend to, I get it.” Her face becomes blotchy when she cries. Blotchy and pink and you miss the way the red ran to her face just moments before, when she could be your own to keep. She sniffles, wiping her face on the inside of her shirt, before forcing her chin upwards to look you in the eye. “For what it’s worth, you really do look like a king. Bye, Oleander. I love you.” You are left alone on the balcony. Your ancestors will watch her leave, and they will know what you relinquish to join them on the walls. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|reconciled dick NOT wet][$location to "the great hall, new delphine"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Your kingdom and coronation brim with ebullient exhilaration, the people of New Delphine welcoming entwinement of shadow and light as hard-fought, graciously deserved peace descends upon the land. There is only celebration in this throne room today, only spilled drinks and secrets and laughter to wash away the blood of sins past. Which aren’t really that long since past since your mom died like, yesterday in the very spot you are all celebrating in. Kitridge cleaned up very fast. Two kings and two new queens: the kingdom has much to commemorate today. Navy stands to the side of Lysander’s throne, leaning down to pepper the sides of his pubily decorated face in kisses and whisper lurid things that you wouldn’t care to know anything about. Still, they both laugh and smile, and Lysander looks to you as light winks dimly off of the wrought iron crown wreathed at his brow. You nod in acknowledgement as starlight dances within the bright glass ringed around your head; light pooling through stain-glassed window flickers in the severe slopes that come to four skyward points, cutting an impressive figure that complements the very ruler it adorns. Your hand finds the hand of your own queen and squeezes; Igraine grins madly, rocking back and forth on the heels of her shoes. She looks every bit the queen she becomes today. She was right: you do not know much about the goings-on within your own domain. Who better to advise you than a shrewd and dedicated ambassador of the nation? You shift against your blackened throne, looking out on all those who attend. The evil women of the harem, who were not a harem at all, in fact, dot the crowd: Dr. Moreau sits at a feast table with a plate of food pushed far away and a stack of tax paperwork pulled close. She looks as though she finds this task incredibly dull, but she does keep good company. Across from her and facing a pillar and not Dr. Moreau at all, still wearing her blindfold, sits Harrow. You wonder if Harrow knows that the good doctor is a vampyre, but then again, Harrow seems to have an approximate knowledge of many things. You trust that she does not need anyone to tell her this. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Kitty linger to the side of the room, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leaned to one side to keep a slinkily long arm draped over Kitty’s short frame. In <span class = ilya>her</span> free hand, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> idly plays with a knife—the very same one <span class = ilya>she</span> stabbed you with, you think—and tosses it in a high arch above the both of their heads. Kitty gazes upwards, eye open wide, as the knife sails back downward, blade first, beelining toward her. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> catches the handle at the very last second. <span class = ilya><i>”Close one,”</i></span> you think <span class = ilya>she</span> says as you see them both laugh. As <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leans downwards toward Kitty’s face, hunger flashing within dead eyes, you decide to look elsewhere, to give them some privacy and spare yourself from watching a really weird makeout scene. Your court Rizzler, which, as you've come to find out, is her actual job title, lingers at the base of the stairs leading to your throne, occasionally mustering a laugh with various faceless NPCs that dance through the crowd to mingle. Clarissa’s face tinges pink, seemingly in embarrassment, and she keeps her arms drawn against herself in some sullen, awkward way. “Haha,” you can make out in the din of the celebration; a signature, small, strange laughter. <<if $clarissaromanced is true>> Your twin blue eyes meet for nothing but a brief and fleeting moment. She stood by, watched you take your vows to country and woman both, every word sinking deeper like a dagger cutting ribbons into pale flesh. You know the feeling well, because <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> stabbed you just yesterday, and that shit hurt. You almost threw up, but you didn’t. How much memory can be found in strands of golden hair, you wonder? Must time enough pass that gold runs to grey before the feeling of her warmth does not haunt you, or will you still look upon her in the courts of your kingdom years from now, seeing her only as you do now, as you did just yesterday, blushing babe held safe in your steady arms? The look you share is but a moment. It ends, like all things meant for the two of you.<</if>> “Babe, you’re sitting on it.” Navy, your brother’s new wife, interrupts your thoughts, crossing her arms over her chest, quirking a brow in subtle irritation. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdNw 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“No I’m not,” says Lysander, standing from his starlight throne. “Yes you are,” says Navy. “Am not,” whines Lysander. “Babe, will you <i>please</i> help me find it?” You note that he makes himself more pathetic when he says please to her, clasping his hands together and giving her some crazy strong heterochromic puppydog eyes. You shake your head and turn your attention back to the crowd—you have missed someone, you know this. Someone who bears the same face as your queen, someone who fears no crown, someone who—hey, was that potted plant always there? A potted snake plant sits suspiciously close to the throne. When the leaves rustle, Igraine’s lesbian twin sister, Isolde, peeks out. “Remember what I told you,” she says, slowly raising two fingers to her own eyes and pointing them back toward your own. “Not just anyone can kill a king, but I certainly can. Do not disappoint my sister. Further than that, you will find that your incredibly average appearance does not color my perception of you as it does for her. In the future, when you find yourself thinking before you act—and you will think before you act—and you think of trying not to disappoint her, think again. Aim higher, King Oleander. Do not disappoint me.” You gulp. “10-4, ma’am.” She nods. You nod. With another quiet rustling, Isolde disappears back into the tall, wavy leaves. Non-denominational Jesus Christ. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdNw 4]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

With every nuanced, evil woman accounted for, you can focus on the chaos happening at your side once more. Navy stands with a hand on her hip whilst your brother grovels at her feet. Raised above him in his wife’s other hand is a small, green ChangelingBar. “Where did I say it was?” she asks. “Baby, I’m sorry I doubted you,” Lysander begs. “Please, have mercy on me. You’re killing me. You’re killing your brand spanking new husband, babe. You’re gonna be a widow because you killed me.” “Die then,” she says, raising his vape higher away from him. “BABE,” he yelps, clinging to both of her legs. “Babe, I love you so much, I’ll never doubt you when you say I’m sitting on my vape ever again. Baby, please. PleASEEEEEEEEEEEE.” After much back and forth, Navy tumbling to the ground, Lysander having to kiss her face one million times in apology, and then—you <i>really</i> hope you didn’t hear him right when he whispered a little too loudly into her ear that he’d do that thing she likes later—fucking barf, dude. Anyway, after all of that, your brother settles back into his throne, one ankle resting on his knee, a contented, shit-eating grin plastered upon his face. “It’s all in the technique, little brother,” he says. “To wrest your vape back, one must think like a vape.” You aren’t sure that’s true, but as he exhales, a strong minty, menthol scent filling the air, it smells of change, of bubbling promise. It smells of dappled light and flickering shadow come together at long last, the close of prophecy to sow new beginnings. It also smells kind of good. “Lysander,” you say. “Lysander, bro, can I hit that? Can I hit your vape? Just once.” He eyeballs you cautiously, as if you make take his ChangelingBar from him. He literally <i>just</i> won it back. He raises it to his lips, sucking the juice out of it until his chest raises full and he looks as though his eyes may pop out of his head. Finally, he responds with a cough. “Nah,” he wheezes. “You don’t even have an ID.” “I'm literally your brother. You know how old I am.” “If I worked at the smoke shop, I'd have to ID you even though I know you. It's the law. I literally wrote the law.” he tips his head, smoke pluming from his mouth. “If you wanna get technical, my scheming eunuch—big distinction from my finest eunuch—wrote it down for me. But I literally wrote the law.” Your shoulders slump, but they raise again, because like, you are still king now. And maybe you're just being saved from nicotine addiction, and that's pretty cool, too. It would seem this is your life now, King Oleander. Brother and Brother annoying the piss out of one another, balance restored as Light and Shadow forever move in tandem. Bards may sing about this again one day, provided their voices are not damaged from fluffy nicotine clouds that hover o’er the lands, but that song has yet to be written, yet to be sung: Here and now, this ballad has been given an end—and so, the ballad of Shadow and Light comes to a close. <<button [[CONTINUE|THE END]]>><</button>>

Your kingdom and coronation brim with ebullient exhilaration, the people of New Delphine welcoming entwinement of shadow and light as hard-fought, graciously deserved peace descends upon the land. There is only celebration in this throne room today, only spilled drinks and secrets and laughter to wash away the blood of sins past. Which aren’t really that long since past since your mom died like, yesterday in the very spot you are all celebrating in. Kitridge cleaned up very fast. Two kings and two new queens: the kingdom has much to commemorate today. Navy stands to the side of Lysander’s throne, leaning down to pepper the sides of his pubily decorated face in kisses and whisper lurid things that you wouldn’t care to know anything about. Still, they both laugh and smile, and Lysander looks to you as light winks dimly off of the wrought iron crown wreathed at his brow. You nod in acknowledgement as starlight dances within the bright glass ringed around your head; light pooling through stain-glassed window flickers in the severe slopes that come to four skyward points, cutting an impressive figure that complements the very ruler it adorns. Your hand finds the hand of your own queen and squeezes; Clarissa beams crookedly, her face coming alight with the presence of you. Today, she sheds the title of Court Rizzler, becoming instead, a royal bride. She need not grow into this title, you think, as you watch her fidget awkwardly beside herself. She only needs to remain yours. She let you hit, after all. Who are you to deny her a crown? You shift against your blackened throne, looking out on all those who attend. The evil women of the harem, who were not a harem at all, in fact, dot the crowd: Dr. Moreau sits at a feast table with a plate of food pushed far away and a stack of tax paperwork pulled close. She looks as though she finds this task incredibly dull, but she does keep good company. Across from her and facing a pillar and not Dr. Moreau at all, still wearing her blindfold, sits Harrow. You wonder if Harrow knows that the good doctor is a vampyre, but then again, Harrow seems to have an approximate knowledge of many things. You trust that she does not need anyone to tell her this. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> and Kitty linger to the side of the room, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leaned to one side to keep a slinkily long arm draped over Kitty’s short frame. In her free hand, <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> idly plays with a knife—the very same one <span class = ilya>she</span> stabbed you with, you think—and tosses it in a high arch above the both of their heads. Kitty gazes upwards, eye open wide, as the knife sails back downward, blade first, beelining toward her. <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> catches the handle at the very last second. <span class = ilya><i>”Close one,”</i></span> you think <span class = ilya>she</span> says as you see them both laugh. As <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> leans downwards toward Kitty’s face, hunger flashing within dead eyes, you decide to look elsewhere, to give them some privacy and spare yourself from watching a really weird makeout scene. You can’t help but feel as though you’re forgetting a person or two. “Babe, you’re sitting on it.” Navy, your brother’s new wife, interrupts your thoughts, crossing her arms over her chest and quirking a brow in subtle irritation. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdw 2]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“No I’m not,” says Lysander, standing from his starlight throne. “Yes you are,” says Navy. “Am not,” whines Lysander. “Babe, will you <i>please</i> help me find it?” You note that he makes himself more pathetic when he says please to her, clasping his hands together and giving her some crazy strong heterochromic puppydog eyes. You shake your head and look back toward the crowd. Somewhere nearby, a potted plant that you don’t think was there before rustles suspiciously. Clarissa leans down to kiss you. “Whoa. Haha. Crazy party, huh?” she asks. “Yeah,” you say, before kissing her kinda nasty-style for a moment. You two are so rudely interrupted by the ruckus your brother and his wife cause. Navy now stands with a hand on her hip whilst your brother grovels at her feet. Raised above his head in her other hand is a small, green ChangelingBar. “Where did I say it was?” she asks. “Baby, I’m sorry I doubted you,” Lysander begs. “Please, have mercy on me. You’re killing me. You’re killing your brand spanking new husband, babe. You’re gonna be a widow because you killed me.” “Die then,” she says, raising his vape higher away from him. “BABE,” he yelps, clinging to both of her legs. “Babe, I love you so much, I’ll never doubt you when you say I’m sitting on my vape ever again. Baby, please. PleASEEEEEEEEEEEE.” You roll your eyes, turning your attention back to Clarissa. “Are they always like that?” you ask. “Yeah,” she laughs. “Kinda. Usually.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|rdw 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Well,” you smirk handsomely, pulling her face back down to yours, “at least we don’t have to pay much attention to them.” She giggles awkwardly, moving to chew a finger grossly in her mouth. You pull her hand away in yours, twining the fingers before resuming your sloppy makeout sesh. The doors to the throne room bang open. The suspicious potted plant rustles even more suspiciously, and from the long, wavy leaves of a snake plant emerges Isolde, lesbian twin sister to the ambassador, Igraine. Igraine, whose tiny shoes clomp as she stomps your way. “YOU CHOSE THE FUCKING <i>RIZZLER</i>? YOU CHOSE CLA<i>RIZZ</i>A?” she screams. Clarissa stumbles back in fear, and your heart rattles in your chest. Igraine approaches faster. You look to your brother for help, but he’s busy looking aghast and doesn’t have a monologue written for this. You're pretty sure the time it takes him to monologue is the time it takes him to do anything meaningful. You look to Isolde, who stands ominously covered in potting soil. She does not take her eyes off of yours, but instead, slowly raises a hand, sticking out a thumb. Isolde gives you a thumbs down as Igraine jabs a tree branch swiftly through your eye socket, killing you instantly. <<button [[okay.|THE END]]>><</button>>

When the mist parts, a fine sheen of dew clings to your plot armor. You wake somewhere the likes of which you’ve only glimpsed in your most despondent classes. All of this strange place is boundless white and perfectly flat. Not a single shadow is cast as you move forwards(?). Some paces ahead(?), you see the first strange indicator. A gridline. You seem to be inside a spreadsheet. “I see you,” comes an even, steady voice. Surprisingly quiet and really loud at the same time. You turn, searching for the source of the voice. It’s nowhere to be seen. “I see you,” the voice says again. “Yeah,” you say. “Heard you the first time. I can’t see you. Where the FUCK are you?” “Sight is a gift, Prince of Shadow.” “Not my name, creepy voice.” “Oh, but it is. It has been. It will be. In time.” “Nuh-uh.” “In time.” “Nuh-uh.” “In time.” “Nuh-uh— are you listening to me? I’m not the Prince of Shadow. My color scheme doesn’t even match that.” “I listen. I see. I see you. I implore you, Prince of Shadows, to-” “Can we stop with the riddles and just get this over with? I can’t even see you and I’m liable to just start-” you huff and hiss as you shadowbox absolutely nothing, because there’s not even any shadows here to box. It’s an impressive display. “Get it?” “Sight is a gift, Prince of-” “I fucking get it! Sight is a gift!! Non-denominational Jesus Christ can’t you just-” The crack of a rifle echoes in the emptiness. You lay flat on your back, head spinning. “Ow.” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue |harrow 3]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Sight is a gift, Prince of Shadow. As are many things in this kingdom. Prophecy, foresight, is a curse you must bear on your own. I, at least, implore you to see- and aim- true.” The strange voice has a body now. Tall, slight, rising from a split cell that props up a long, smoking rifle. She wears a military uniform, finely cut and neatly pressed. Gleaming leather boots tuck into pale trousers and a long, navy blue cloak turns her slender figure imposing as she stands, spreading her arms wide like the wings some kind of fucked up heron, the cloak sliding in seemingly slow motion from her arms to reveal a coat of presumably armor. It’s not armor. It’s <i>medals</i>. Dozens, if not hundreds of them forming neat rows like the scales of a fish or the iridescent feathers of a bird. Someone this decorated must be really good at paperwork or else really, really good at killing. You presume it to be the latter – this decorated officer wears a white blindfold over her eyes, tucked neatly under her finely slouched beret (that also has a medal on it.) Presumable blindness does not make for a good paperwork filler. How she saw you, you have no idea. In fact, you don’t want to know. She picks up her rifle gingerly, working the bolt with a sureness that can only come from handling a weapon like a killer. Where <span class = ilya>The Executioner, Ilya Serpens,</span> was a brutally effective hunter, this strange woman seems to be a more noble, dignified kind of killer. One who is not rewarded by the bloodshed she causes, but <i>for</i> it. And judging by the medals, she’s really, really good at it. The butt of the rifle (heh) rests at a perfect angle with the ground as she comes to a stop over you. She casts no shadow. The only thing in this room casting a shadow seems to be you as you raise a hand to cover your face, vainly. She proffers you a white-gloved hand, her trigger finger the only exposed flesh. “I am not a dishonorable woman, Prince of Shadow. I would not kill you for the sport of it, but because it is what I am predestined to do.” “Who are you?” You ask as she raises you to your feet with ease. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue |harrow intro]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“That’s. Wow that’s a lot of titles,” you stammer. Harrow seems unaffected. “Earned,” is all she says, adjusting one of her many gleaming medals. “So do I just start-” you huff and hiss as you shadowbox absolutely nothing, because there’s not even any shadows here to box. Harrow moves subtly out of your range even as you scooch near enough to almost accidentally clip her with a punch. It’s an impressive display. “Or..?” “Nothing so… brutish,” Harrow explains, shaking her head. “We’ll duel for the honor, if that’s amenable to you.” “Yeah.” “Very well, then. Are you familiar with the rules?” “Are we doing this Old West style, waiting for high noon and then turning to draw and just shoot each other or like- is there another style to it?” You shift from foot to foot. “Are you gonna give me a gun?” Harrow sighs. She doesn’t really, but the ripple of medals as her shoulders slump disappointedly is palpable and reads to you as a sigh. “We will stand a number of paces apart and engage in turn-based combat due to engine limitations. But first, I suppose you do need a firearm.” Sick. You’ve always wanted to unsafely carry a gun and commit all sorts of egregious sins in the world of gun safety for the sake of looks. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue |harrow 5]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

The pistol Harrow hands you is a surprisingly boring looking hunk of black metal and plastic. It’s small and dense, and feels immediately less cool than you would presume holding a gun would be. “So. This thing fully auto or-?” “No.” Harrow pulls back the slide, verifying to you that there is no round in the chamber and leaving it looking a little weird, barrel exposed. The slide clicks back into place and you nod. “Semi-automatic, nine-millimeter. Unbranded as not to run afoul of any sort of copyright, like everything else. Other than the song lyrics – you could have picked better there.” “How do you know that?” You ask, befuddled. “I am well trained with firearms of all varieties,” she states plainly, loading a magazine into the pistol and racking the slide. “No the other thing. The song lyrics.” “I have an approximate knowledge of many things, some of which are metatextual.” “Oh. Right,” you manage as Harrow presses the pistol into your palm. Loaded. Ready to wreak havoc with. You raise it, and immediately get smacked. “Ow! What the fuck was that for???” “Rule number one of firearms-” “Always have fun and remember to be yourself. Obviously. Ashley Wyoming, star of her eponymous Magic Mouse show said that.” Harrow looks at you like you just shot her most prized possession. Which you could have, considering she pries your finger off the trigger. “No. Where did you-? No. The first rule of firearm safety is to presume any firearm is loaded and therefore dangerous. And therefore — not something you point at anything you’re not willing to kill.” “Aren’t we going to be killing each other?” “Honorably,” Harrow replies, her tone rankled. “In a <i>duel</i>, not senseless violence.” You don’t see there being much of a difference. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[continue |harrow 6]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

Harrow picks up her rifle and goes about two cells away on the spreadsheet floor or wall or ceiling. It could be any of these. She just goes away a little, cycling the action of her rifle again, spent brass clattering on the floor before despawning. “The duel will proceed as such: the initiative has been rolled for, and this will determine the order of attack. The ordained first turn will proceed with either you or I raising our weapon, aiming, and firing. You are not permitted to flinch. You are not permitted to cry. You are not permitted to run away. You will stand there, and allow me to fire upon you, and you will fire upon me in turn. I will not flinch. I will not cry. I most certainly will not run away. Do you understand?” “Honestly I think the ‘no crying’ rule is like, really toxic of you, and enforcing harmful stereotypes of masculinity that are foisted upon those who desire to perform masculinity or else identify with it – men do cry.” “How would I know any of this about you, Prince of Shadow? I cannot see you. I do not discriminate – be it man or woman, I care little for whose fate draws thin as they fall under my scope. You have chosen to engage me in single combat and thus – I require bravery.” Harrow straightens her shoulders, the medals glimmering a little. “Regardless of your personal proclivities – if you cannot identify with bravery, if bravery is outside of your skillset, then I hesitate to duel a coward. I would instead recommend you to be prey for <span class = ilya>Ilya</span>.” “I’m not a coward,” you snarl, your anger flashing red to cover the terror in your veins. “I’m an alpha male, not some beta to be hunted like an animal.” “Of course,” Harrow says boredly. “Shall we proceed?” <<nobr>> <<set _NPCinit to random(1,20)>> <<set _playerinit to random(1,20)>> <</nobr>> Harrow’s Initiative: _NPCinit Your Initiative: _playerinit <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _playerinit is _NPCinit>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Huh. Don’t think that’s supposed to happen. There’s only one way to settle this.|harrow rps]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _playerinit gt _NPCinit>><li><div class = choice-item> [[”I’ll go first.”|oleander shoots]] </div></li> <<elseif _playerinit lt _NPCinit>><li><div class = choice-item> [[”You’ll go first.”|harrow shoots]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Uh. the numbers are the same.” Harrow nods sagely. “That can happen. It’s rare, but it can happen.” “We should play rock, paper, scissors. I bet that’s a really neat and not at all annoying minigame for the author to code, given that this duel has already had to be streamlined due to mental illness and the limitations of the game engine.” “Yes, let us,” Harrow replies, stowing her rifle for a moment. <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow loss][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow win][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow win][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow loss][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow loss][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow win][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

The dice have ordained, somehow, that you go first. This feels like the only boon you’re going to get. “I win,” you say, hoping you can trick Harrow into thinking you’ve somehow won the duel without firing once. “We’ll see,” she replies smoothly. You raise the pistol, squint down the sights at Harrow, and fire. <<set _player to random(1,20)>><<if _player lte 15>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _player gt 15>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|duel loop]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|game win!!]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You shudder. The dice have ordained that Harrow go first. “Uh. You win,” you squeak out. Harrow smiles softly, shouldering her rifle with precision. “That, I do.” You brace yourself, trying not to flinch. She fires. <<set _harrow to random(1,20)>><<if _harrow lte 8>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _harrow gt 8>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow miss]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow hit]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<set _misstext to random(1,3)>><<if _misstext is 1>>Harrow shoulders her long rifle, bracing it against her opposite forearm as she takes aim. She exhales slowly, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You steady yourself, clenching your jaw as not to scream. Harrow pulls the trigger smoothly, and fire leaps from the end of the barrel, the bullet cutting past you close enough to rustle your cape. “Shit,” she curses under her breath. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” “Missed me!” You crow triumphantly. It’s your turn now. You raise the pistol, squinting down the sights. It’s a lot harder than video games make it seem, though Harrow stands stock still and placid. It feels wrong, like shooting very bright fish in a barrel. Though you might miss, and that’s not the point of that adage. You <<linkappend "jerk">>off<</linkappend>> the trigger. <<elseif _misstext is 2>>Harrow shoulders her long rifle, bracing it against her opposite forearm as she takes aim, the sway of the gun steadying to nothing. She exhales slowly, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You steady yourself, clenching your jaw as not to scream. Your unmentionables pucker. Harrow pauses before she pulls the trigger smoothly, fire surging from the muzzle break, as the bullet sings past you, leaving only a massive, deafening eacho. “????,” she swears, maybe under her breath. You can’t really hear her. “????? ?? ? ??? ?? ????? ??? ?????????? ????” “You missed me!” You scream triumphantly. “You fuckin’ missed!!” It’s your turn now. You raise the pistol, squinting down the sights and trying to control your breathing like Harrow did. It’s a lot harder than video games make it seem, and you’re fairly certain you’re turning red in the face. Harrow stands stock still and placid. You suppose it’s easy to be brave – or at least not to laugh – when you can’t see you making an ass of yourself. You pull the trigger. <<elseif _misstext is 3>>Harrow takes a knee, shouldering her long rifle and bracing it against her opposite forearm as she narrows in her aim, the sway of the gun steadying to nothing. She exhales steadily, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You steady yourself, clenching your jaw as not to cry. You clench other things as not to pee yourself. It’s over just as soon as it begins; Harrow pulls the trigger smoothly, and smoke and flame leap from the rifle’s maw, the bullet tearing past you with a palpable shockwave. You flinch despite yourself. “Son of a bitch!,” she curses, evidently angry that she didn’t shoot you. “That’s my dead mom you’re talking about,” you grumble. “She’d be ashamed you flinched.” “You don’t know I flinched!” you retort. “How would you know that? You can’t even see me!!” “I have an approximate knowledge of many things,” Harrow sneers. It’s your turn now. You raise the pistol, peering down the sights and squinting and heavy breathing while trying to control your breathing like Harrow did. It’s a lot harder than video games make it seem, even games that include a breath mechanic and you’re fairly certain you’re turning red in the face. Harrow stands stock still and placid. She dares you to shoot. And so you do, pulling the trigger. <</if>> <<set _player to random(1,20)>><<if _player lte 15>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _player gt 15>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|duel loop]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|game win!!]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

<<set _hittext to random(1,3)>><<if _hittext is 1>>Harrow snaps her long rifle to her shoulder, bracing it against her opposite forearm as she takes aim, the sway of the gun steadying to nothing as she settles, exhaling slowly and steadily, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You ready yourself, clenching your jaw so as not to scream. Your unmentionables pucker. “I don’t miss,” Harrow exhales, pulling the trigger smoothly. You see and feel nothing, your legs giving out and arms unresponsive. You think you pee yourself a little, but you’re not sure. Your plot armor looks more like a plot mess the authors are loathe to figure out. Blood decorates the brilliant white, pours onto the spreadsheet floor. You nod, as if you’re accepting your death. Harrow stands over you as your eyes flirt with closing forever. “Sight is a gift. Aim – well – you don’t need eyes to aim,” Harrow’s taunting voice sounds like it’s distant, far away, underwater. “Open your eyes, Prince of Shadow, remember this – you can always Go Back.” <<elseif _hittext is 2>>Harrow considers the situation for a moment, sinking to a knee and in a second, equally smooth movement, raising her long rifle to her shoulder and bracing it against her opposite forearm. It is an awe-inspiring sight as she takes aim, the sway of the gun steadying to nothing as she settles, exhaling slowly and steadily, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You ready yourself, clenching your jaw so as not to scream or flinch. You have no choice but to trust your plot armor. Harrow pulls the trigger smoothly, in slowmo that would make a movie director proud, and you see and feel nothing but the shockwave leaving the end of the rifle. You crumble, staring at the hole in your plot armor. Blood decorates the edges of it, seeps onto the spreadsheet floor. Harrow stands over you as your eyes flirt with closing forever. “I don’t miss, remember?” Harrow’s taunting voice sounds like it’s distant, far away, underwater. “Remember this – you can always Go Back.” <<elseif _hittext is 3>>Harrow considers the situation for a moment, sinking to a knee and in a second, equally smooth movement, descending to lay prone, raising her long rifle to her shoulder and setting up a bipod. It is an awe-inspiring sight as she takes aim, the barrel of the gun twitching once before steadying. She exhales slowly and steadily, the only sound in this nondenominational-godforsaken spreadsheet. You ready yourself, clenching your jaw so as not to scream or flinch. You have no choice but to trust your plot armor, but your unmentionables pucker anyways. And for good reason. Harrow pulls the trigger smoothly, and fire leaps from the end of the barrel, the last thing you see before you’re flat on your back on the ground. Blood decorates the spreadsheet floor. Harrow stands over you as your eyes close, a handful of slow blinks growing longer. “Remember,” Harrow’s voice sounds like it’s distant, far away, underwater. “You can always Go Back.” <</if>>

You channel all of <span class = ilya>Ilya’s</span> rage, the lesson <span class = ilya>she</span> taught you, the lesson Harrow seems to be teaching you now. You sneer as you aim, your snarling expression squinting your eyes perfectly to make the little picture of Harrow between the sightposts clear as day. <span class = ilya>Overwhelming Violence</span> seems to be an appropriate solution to all of your problems, or, at least the one two spreadsheet cells away. You're so sick of being shot it's not even funny anymore. It's time to end this. “Oh, it’s over now, bitch,” you snarl, squeezing the trigger with force. The pistol kicks in your hands, threatening to break your vambraced wrists. But your aim is true. Harrow staggers, a gloved hand pressed to her chest. You shot her. It’s over. At long last. <<button [[yay|game win!! 2]]>><</button>>

<<set _misstext to random(1,3)>><<if _misstext is 1>>You raise the pistol, peering down the sights and squinting and heavy breathing. It’s a whole non-denominational hell of a lot harder than video games make it seem, even games that include a breath mechanic and you’re fairly certain you’re turning red in the face. Harrow stands stock still and placid. She dares you to shoot. And so you do, pulling the trigger. The pistol jumps in your hands and you almost drop it, a flash of fire and an incredibly loud banging noise the only confirmation the gun even went off. Harrow is completely unfazed. “I presume it’s my turn?” she asks placidly. “Yeah, I fucking guess,” you mutter angrily. Harrow smiles, preparing to fire. <<elseif _misstext is 2>>You consider the pistol as you raise it. This, a tool of nothing but death; there is no other use for a firearm, there is no peaceful intent save for hunting and even then, death leaps from the end of the barrel at your behest. You suppose you must engage in violence – lest violence claim you. Harrow has no qualms about such things; the amount of medals she wears are proof enough of that. She will kill you. You must kill her first, if you want to live. And thus, the moral quandary continues. The gun is heavy in your hands. You become an instrument of death, staring down the length of the barrel through the sightposts at Harrow. Would it even be right to kill her? Is there no other way? She cannot even see you and allows you to point a gun at her anyways. She welcomes death and you fear it. This pistol would be better aimed at your own head; this is the only escape from the cycle of violence, to end it with your own hands, to cease to exist by your own hand. You cannot. You are afraid of death, more afraid of dying than of killing. You will be a monster by your own – yes, forced, but ultimately your own – volition. Your breath and hands tremble as you aim at Harrow, and pull the trigger. The pistol jumps in your hands and almost falls from your hands – you wish it would, you wish to be free of this horrid burden — but you have fired. A flash of light and sound illuminates your sin, the bullet leaps towards Harrow, a placid martyr waiting for her destruction. She asked for this and you attempted to deliver, albeit poorly. You missed. “I’m sorry,” you whisper hoarsely. “I presume it’s my turn?” she asks. The eagerness in her voice turns your stomach. She enjoys this, finds pleasure, even in the infliction of violence. “Yes,” you reply shakily. Harrow, the monster clad in medals, smiles, preparing to fire. <<elseif _misstext is 3>>You shakily take aim at Harrow. “Are you <i>sure</i> you’re fine with me shooting at you?” “Yes,” Harrow replies flatly. “Just pull the trigger already.” You follow her instructions, the pistol kicking in your hands and you yelping as you drop it. “You missed,” she says bluntly. “My turn.” You think she’s biting back a laugh as she prepares to fire. <</if>> <<set _harrow to random(1,20)>><<if _harrow lte 8>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _harrow gt 8>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow miss]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow hit]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you ball your fist and throw rock. So does Harrow. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice (liar)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“We tied. Gotta do it again.”|RPS loop]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you flatten your hand and throw paper. It was the wrong move. Harrow throws scissors and laughs. "Scissors haven't failed me yet." <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“You win”|harrow win]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you make a pair of scissors out of your index and middle fingers and throw scissors. Harrow chooses wrong, throwing paper. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win."|winners choice]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you ball your fist and throw rock. Harrow chooses wrong, throwing scissors. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win."|winners choice]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you make a pair of scissors out of your index and middle fingers and throw scissors. It was the wrong move. Harrow throws rock. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“You win”|harrow win]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you flatten your hand and throw paper. So does Harrow. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice (liar)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“We tied. Gotta do it again.”|RPS loop]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you ball your fist and throw rock. It was the wrong move. Harrow throws paper. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“You win”|harrow win]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you flatten your hand and throw paper. Harrow chooses wrong, throwing rock. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win."|winners choice]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

This feels kinda wrong, playing rock, paper, scissors against a blind person. But you make a pair of scissors out of your index and middle fingers and throw scissors. So does Harrow. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [["I win." (lie)|winners choice (liar)]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[“We tied. Gotta do it again.”|RPS loop]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“I win!” you crow triumphantly. Harrow sighs. “You may go on your way then.” “Wait, no duel minigame at all?” “No. None.” Harrow shakes her head. “I’m going to take your firearm and half your hitpoints but that won’t be an issue, will it?” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yeah, actually, that’s gonna be an issue.|we got a problem]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Nope! No problem here!|okay ❤️yay ❤️]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Ah shit,” you say. Harrow threw the exact same thing as you. “What happened?” Harrow asks, tilting her head inquisitively. “Threw the same thing. We gotta go again.” “That would be fair.” <<set _RPS to random(1,3)>><<if _RPS is 1>><<set $npcRPS to "rock">><<elseif _RPS is 2>><<set $npcRPS to "paper">><<elseif _RPS is 3>><<set $npcRPS to "scissors">><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if $npcRPS is "rock">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow loss][$losses += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow win][$wins +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "paper">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow win][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow tie]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow loss][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <<elseif $npcRPS is "scissors">><li><div class = choice-item> [[rock|rock harrow loss][$losses +=1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[paper|paper harrow win][$wins += 1]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[scissors|scissors harrow tie]] </div></li> <</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

You’re a man of honor. An alpha male. You know when to admit defeat. You shake your head as you tell Harrow. “You win.” “The duel proceeds, then,” Harrow says matter of factly, snapping her rifle up to her shoulder and aiming. You’re an alpha male. You don’t flinch as she pulls the trigger. <<set _harrow to random(1,20)>><<if _harrow lte 8>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _harrow gt 8>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow miss]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|harrow hit]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“I win!” you crow triumphantly. Somewhere in that withered heart of yours, you feel a little pang of guilt for having lied to a blind person. You’re going to non-denominational Hell. Harrow sighs, the guilt sinking fangs into you. “You may go on your way then.” “Wait, no duel minigame at all?” “No. None.” Harrow shakes her head. “I’m going to take your firearm and half your hitpoints but that won’t be an issue, will it?” <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Yeah, actually, that’s gonna be an issue.|we got a problem]] </div></li> <li><div class = choice-item> [[Nope! No problem here!|okay ❤️yay ❤️]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Yeah that sounds a little fucked. I would rather duel. And I’m going first.” “That’s fine,” Harrow acquiesces “you did win rock, paper, scissors after all.” You raise the pistol, squint down the sights at Harrow, and fire. <<set _player to random(1,20)>><<if _player lte 15>><<set _miss to true>><<elseif _player gt 15>><<set _hit to true>><</if>> <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <<if _miss is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|duel loop]] </div></li><</if>> <<if _hit is true>><li><div class = choice-item> [[Continue|game win!!]] </div></li><</if>> </ol></div><</nobr>>

“Sounds good to me,” you shrug, smirking and offering Harrow your handgun. She takes it, tucking it into the back of her waistband. “What do I even need hitpoints for?” “You’ll need them,” Harrow says ominously. But you’re already leaving. Goodbye, spreadsheet and hello, freedom. <<nobr>><div class = choices><ol> <li><div class = choice-item> [[harrow 7][$location to "hallways"]] </div></li> </ol></div><</nobr>>

As you leave the spreadsheet dimension, you feel suspiciously as though half of your hitpoints were taken. You didn’t really learn anything, you think, wandering the hallways. Hopefully your next challenge doesn’t involve any more guns. Harrow follows you, carrying a really large iron key that seems a little comical in her hands. She adjusts her beret but says nothing to you. <<button [[CONTINUE|clarizza 1]]>><</button>>

There’s blood on the pure white floor of this spreadsheet. Harrow’s blood. There was yours too unless you got really lucky and this is your first attempt, but honestly, this minigame is rigged worse than every other one, so it’s probably not your first attempt. Harrow props herself up to one elbow, breathing heavily. She can’t see that she’s bleeding, though her eyebrows are raised and her eyes wide beneath the blindfold. But you can. You can see where you managed to catch her with one bullet from your honestly both scary and boring gun, where the medals warped and shattered, spraying shrapnel that cut through the cloth, lacerated the skin – you can see the wound you caused more intentionally, breathing as she does. Harrow manages to stand, the front of her perfect uniform and all her medals drenched in blood. “You win,” she grits out through clenched teeth stained pinkish with blood-flecked spittle. “Okay, what do I win? Like do I get to pick my prize or do I just get to move on, because <span class = ilya>Ilya</span> gave me <span class = ilya>Overwhelming Violence</span> and that’s the only reason I managed to get through this. Because I remembered how many times <span class = ilya>she</span> shot me and got perfectly mad.” Harrow looks at you with an equal mix of tired and disgusted. “You get to walk away. And the knowledge of the all-mighty Go Back button when things get difficult.” “Not even a medal or anything?” “You didn’t earn it.” <<button [[ok.|harrow 7]]>><</button>>