XXIV: Ashes to Altruists

Cameras flashed like muzzle bursts. Reporters mobbed the podium, shouting over each other. A cacophony that reminded Lanie of feeding frenzies witnessed underwater. Beside her stood Evelin who legally added the "-Devarîș" suffix precisely thirty-six hours prior. She adjusted her scarf to obscure the worst of her eczema outbreak. Stress-induced, undoubtedly.

Above the dais, holographic banners cycled through languages nobody truly understood. The Phoenix Rising Initiative. Beneath pixel-flames, the two women walked over and sat flanking an empty chair.

"—funding streams remain confidential pending review," Lanie clipped, answering a shouted query. Sequins scaled her jacket like armored plumage. Behind tinted glasses, her pupils contracted to feline slits. "However, certain parties agreed reparations outweigh inheritance taxes."

Murmurs boiled. Someone yelled, "Define parties!"

Behind her staged smile, Lanie counted tiles mapping escape routes. Thirty-two steps to the nearest fortified lavatory. One equipped with ventilation suitable for discreet hyperventilation episodes.

She Glanced sidelong to confirm Evelyn's patented ‘Talk Faster Than Bullets Travel™’ mode activating.

"Invoices stamped with clawprints pay quicker," Evelyn spoke up—crossed stockinged legs. Ruby earrings weighted her ears, matching the encrusted heart-shaped padlock caging her junk. A chastity cage designed by a taxidermist with a grudge—dangled. It's keyhole aligned precisely to Georgia’s diamond nestled snug betwixt her thighs.

Journalists ogled the conspicuous bulge beneath her pencil skirt. Nobody dared comment.

Click. A dozen shutters froze her mid-snarl.

Her scarf slipped as she leaned forward, unleashing her very effective Gatling-gun cadence. "Post-conflict multilateral stakeholders utilising cross-collateralized quasi-governmental debt instruments aligned with third-quarter deliverables." Her grin sharpened, "Though naturally, all NGO-ETF hybrid frameworks require blockchain-based grief audits. Conducted retroactively through participatory action research paradigms."

The room blinked in unison. A Reuters correspondent mouthed what into his cufflink.

“We’re not saints,” she bulldozed onward, knuckles whitening...

“Saints get statues. We’ve got spreadsheets and a fantastic dental plan.”

Chairwoman Ngombe silenced dissent with a mic feedback shriek that could sterilize lab rats. "Final statement from Ms. Devaris prior to press site visits."

"Diamond formation necessitates immense pressures sustained eons," Lanie stated coolly. Her ring caught the spotlight beams spectacularly. "Similarly, societal reconstruction demands resource consolidation exceeding individual lifetimes. Allegorical parallels should intrigue conspiracy theorists and divorce attorneys splendidly."

Microphone pops subsided. Lanie removed her shades. Cameras zoomed. Her stiletto tapped the podium. A reminder: Don’t crater now.

"When bombs fall," she enunciated, consonants crisp as mortar snaps, "children dig latrine pits with soup spoons. Mothers brew antibiotics from moldy ration packs. Victory gardens sprout through unexploded ordnances, yield potatoes shaped like severed hands."

Flashbulbs reflected in her irises, magnesium flares in a coal mine. "Our coalition teaches composting cluster munitions. Trauma surgeons trained via VR headsets salvaged from bomb disposal drones. Yesterday's torture chambers retrofit as daycare centres featuring anti-nightmare ward designs."

Dead air coagulated. Chairwoman Ngombe dabbed her temples with a handkerchief that’d seen three funerals.

“Phoenix Rising’s largest shelter opens Tuesday.” Lanie’s smirk didn’t reach her temples. “Bring your own fucking casseroles.”

The room detonated. Lanie inhaled the shrapnel.

From the fourth row, Calypso Wire barked through a mouthful of smoldering cloves. "Sources allege Argentinian cave systems emptied of dragon gold financed these efforts. Confirm?"

"Our CFO appreciates creative accounting myths." Evelyn’s smile revealed slightly pointed teeth. "Though speaking hypothetically. Hoarded resources redistributed voluntarily prevent messy probate battles involving widowed wyrms."

CNN reared. "Legal filings cite deceased founder George Demoš directing operations remotely. Explain the digital signatures originating from active warzones!"

Static distorted speakers as the PA system malfunctioned. Through electronic banshee wails, Lanie projected calmly: "Legacies transcend binary limitations. Ask Kabul’s newly irrigated wheat farms whose pollen resembles Georgian peach blossoms."

Reporters exchanged glances. AP-Albatross ventured meekly, "…Autonomous pollination initiatives?"

Harpy Herald’s talons clicked against the mic. "Why the shift from Demoš to Devaris? And why’s Ms. Evelyn wearing it too?"

Lanie’s eyelid twitched. "Too many memories."

Evelyn leaned in, serpent-bright. "Deadnames make shitty headstones. Next."

Fox leaned forward, fangs glinting. "Documents cite pseudonymous mystery donor Georgia Devaris, another Devaris directing funds anonymously. Please elaborate.

Lanie’s knuckles only whitened further. "Some legacies… require aliases." The lie slithered out smoother than a shadow dissolving at dawn.

Evelyn smirked, adjusting her nameplate. "Shared surnames ward off tax vultures. Metaphorically speaking."

NBC: "Anonymous donations bypass oversight laws!"

"Incorrect." Evelyn flipped her tablet, displaying labyrinthine flowcharts. "Fund routing complies with Vatican banking statutes circa 1429 plus Article XII of Faerie Accord—"

Murmurs bubbled. A reporter raised her phone. Footage of delta wetlands bursting with lotus flowers unfurling over submerged tanks.

"This isn’t rainbows and gay unicorns." Lanie’s knuckles whitened. "Our foundations mix bone meal with cement. If that unsettles you? Good. Comfort murdered millions."

Cameras zoomed in on her ring. Behind her, holographic graphs charted 'Conflict Zone Floriculture Rates ↑3000%.' Alongside were photos of toddlers stacking LEGOs sculpted from decommissioned rifles.

Evelyn stood abruptly. Skirt seam nearly splitting. Ignoring exposure risks, she snatched the microphone.

"This rebrand honours radical accountability. Survivors architect solutions drafted in their own dialects. Which includes respecting chosen identities retroactively. To respect historical figures otherwise erased by bureaucratic erasers lacking nuance toner cartridges."

Utter stillness. Camera shutters hesitated.

"…Meaning?" prompted BBC.

Hand descending upon desiccated bouquets centerstage, Liane declared loudly. "Effective immediately, Executive Director Emeritus records reflect Georgia Devaris. Pronounced deh-vahr-ees, emphasis requisite lest tongues combust spontaneously."

Evelyn growled, hip-checking Lanie aside. “Next question insults my belt buckle, I start auctioning organs.”

Silence.

“Lovely.” She blew a kiss to CNN. “Our CFO’s a spreadsheet phantom. Audit trails end in fairy rings. Send your subpoenas to Narnia.”

Lanie snorted. “She means Georgia.”

A hush. Georgia’s name hung like a guillotine.

And then… the gasps multiplied exponentially. HuffPost triggered livestream fireworks by accident.

Amidst the pandemonium, Chairwoman Ngombe wrestled control. Projectors displayed architectural renderings. Schoolhouses engineered from decommissioned tanks, hydroponics nourishing amputee rehabilitation courtyards.

Headlines overwrote themselves globally:

PHILANTHROPY COUP OR CORPSECRAFT CABAL??

Having walked off-stage by now. Leaning against emergency exits marked 'IN CASE OF ARMAGEDDON BREAK GLASS,' the architects observed the fallout.

"Well?" inquired Evelyn, picking cuticles. "Sufficiently incendiary?"

"They'll spin conspiracies regardless." Lannie extracted a smoke from her bra underwire. "'Cept now orphans receive prosthetic limbs designed by kobolds formerly indentured to oligarchs. Fair exchange rate."

“Three shelters in six months.” Evelyn flicked her locket. “Bet she’s pissed.”

“Pissed we’re competent?”

“Pissed she’s missing the show.”

Lanie’s laugh tasted like battery acid. “We’re her fucking memorial garden.”

A moth battered the lone bulb. Evelyn’s cage clinked as she lit a cigarette herself. “Should’ve buried her in that slutty chemise.”

“We would have dug her up by week two.”

“True.”

Silence.

Evelyn exhaled a smoke ring shaped like Georgia’s smirk. “Remember the trip to the mall?”

“Which meltdown?”

“The one with the raccoon and the Slim Jims. I laughed so hard I —”

“—peed on the hubcaps. Yeah.”

The bulb died.

Director Emeritus: Georgia Devaris

Last Login: [ENCRYPTED] – Coordinates match mass grave reforestation site, Sector 7.

The penthouse smelled like lavender and aged regret. Lanie kicked off her heels, leather soles scraping marble floors that’d never seen a bloodstain. “Still hate this place.”

Evelyn slouched on the sofa, skirt hiked to her hips. The chastity cage glinted cold beneath cocktail-hour shadows. “You picked it.”

“Better than that house.” Lanie’s throat clicked. “Fucking… mothballs and bad decisions.”

“You mean Georgia’s house.”

A vase shattered against the wall. Evelyn didn’t flinch.

Lanie stalked over, yanking Evelyn’s skirt higher. The cage dug into pale flesh, titanium heart pendant dangling like a taunt. “How’s your useless clit today?”

“Flaccid as your moral compass.” Evelyn exhaled smoke through her nose.

Lanie flicked the cage. It pinged, Georgia’s diamond glowing faintly in her ring. “Miss her?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Evelyn grabbed Lanie’s wrist, forcing her palm flat against the cage. “Like smoking through a tracheotomy hole. Burns. Doesn’t fix shit.”

Silence settled on them like congealed wax.

Evelyn leaned back, skirt still rucked around her waist. “Remember the night she turned your silk stash into bandages? That refugee kid’s arm hanging by threads?”

Lanie’s thumb rubbed the cage’s edge raw. “Said my taste in lingerie was ‘tacky wartime propaganda’.”

“Then fucked you on the donation crates.”

“Left splinters for weeks you demented stalker.”

Evelyn’s smile died. The cage clicked as she stood. “We’re worse than ghosts. At least ghosts haunt.”

Lanie spun the diamond ring. Somewhere beneath skyscrapers, a Phoenix Rising shelter lit its first furnace.

On the balcony, concrete had split. A sapling had clawed through, petals unfurling the exact red of Georgia’s last laugh.

Lanie didn’t notice.

Neither did the moth escaping its chrysalis in the ruins of their old linen closet, wings still damp with its metamorphosis.
 
 
XXV. Burn Patterns

Blackreach’s gates sagged like a broken jaw. Rust gnawed the iron bars, flakes crumbling under Lanie’s boots. The Phoenix Rising Initiative had purchased the compound six months back, but the ugliness was left untouched. Collapsed guard towers, razor wire nests bloated with dead leaves. One year since Georgia’s bones went cold. The anniversary clawed Lanie’s throat raw.

Evelyn stalked beside her, fists balled, heels cracking weeds that split the concrete. No words. Just the creak of leather and the wet suck of mud underfoot.

The common area stank of mildew and meat left to rot.

Lanie’s flashlight carved a path through the gloom. Crushed syringes glittered like false stars. A toppled bench, legs snapped. Evelyn froze. Her boot nudged a chain coiled in the corner—rusted, flecked with brown that wasn’t rust.

“Here.” Her voice cracked.

The floor here was different. Scorched tiles in a spiral, blackened where magic had seared through stone. Evelyn’s knees hit the ground hard. Her fingers dug into the pattern, nails splitting on grit. “I… I cursed him here.”

Lanie crouched, hand hovering over Evelyn’s shaking spine. “Get up.”

“Should’ve been me.”

“Get. Up.” Lanie hauled her by the elbow, grip bruising. Evelyn swayed, eyes glassy. Rain bled through the collapsed ceiling, cutting tracks through the grime on her face.

Then it happened—Evelyn’s breath hitched, pupils dilating into voids. She clawed at her collar. “Can’t… breathe—”

Lanie seized her jaw. “Breakdown’s due, huh?” Her free hand yanked the hem of Evelyn’s skirt up, fingers finding the chastity cage’s lock beneath. A vicious twist. The click echoed like a bone snap.

Evelyn squealed—a feral, wet sound—as steel teeth bit deeper. Buckled against the wall.

“Pain’s the penitence you chose,” Lanie hissed, tightening the grip. “To remember we are needed.”

A whimper. Then clarity flooded Evelyn’s gaze, sharp as shattered glass. She spat blood. “Fuck you.”

“Later.” Lanie released her, wiping hands on her thighs. “Crawl done?”

Evelyn straightened, adjusting the cage with trembling hands. “Bourbon. Now.”

Lanie unscrewed her flask. Georgia’s cheap shit sloshed—the kind that burned like a backhand. She poured a line across the spiral. “For the ghosts who can’t swallow.”

Evelyn stared at the stain. “She’d love this.”

“Loved most things.” Lanie pocketed the flask. “C’mon. Time to burn.”

BREAKING NEWS

—camera jerks, smoke churning—

“...confirmed dragon activity over the Blackreach exclusion zone... First sighting since the peace accords... seem anthropomorphosised?... Authorities stress no casualties... Skywriting appears to read ‘MAKE LOVE NOT WAR’... Hold on—secondary message igniting now... Uh, that’s ‘FUCK BLACKREACH’ in, ah... flammable liquid, possibly draconic in origin...”

worldwide, televisions recycled aerial footage tagged #dragoswinning #dragonspeeinglove. X debated pyro-semiotics. Subreddits dedicated to dragon themed anime porn mushroomed. Retired generals cited applicable Geneva provisions.

Back in the penthouse

The succubus shapeshifting formulas had done their work. Horns coiled like blackened fiddleheads, tails flicking restless against silk sheets. George’s fantasy made flesh, one year too late. Two succubi and him, he’d scrawled in that bourbon-stained journal. Too much cockfire for mortal men.

“Third hook’s busted,” Evelyn muttered, wrestling her bra like urban rappelling gear. Straps throttled her bicep.

Lanie snorted. “Thought you invented physics.”

The bedframe shrieked as Evelyn rolled off, her cock limp as a dead eel. Lanie propped herself on one elbow, squinting. “Christ. Looks like a melted gummy worm.”

Evelyn glared. “Blame the shitty curse.” She grabbed the chastity cage from the nightstand—click—locking herself in before Lanie could blink. The heart-shaped charm glinted, rubies pulsing.

Lanie stared. “The fuck you doing?”

“Saving us both the embarrassment”, Evelyn flopped back, arm over her eyes. The cage jingled.

“Could strap up,” Lanie offered, nodding at the nightstand’s lacquered box. Inside: obsidian silicone, serrated ridges. “Bend you over like Xanathar did the Skyward Legion. Let me reenact his greatest hit—Battle of Twin Spires. Two dragons, one dick.Old draconic courtesies.”

Evelyn’s tail lashed a vase. It exploded. “He died the day Georgia did.”

“He,” Lanie purred. “Yes. Left only you behind”

Evelyn froze, hands covering her face as rain smeared the window. “Winners claim losers’ asses. I’m no battle-broke whelp.”

“I was.” Lanie’s smirk cut. “Let him plough me raw after every workplace bloodbath. Loved it.”

Evelyn’s breath hitched. “Different.”

“Yeah. She earned it.”

Lanie’s smile died halfway. She reached out, thumb brushing the charm. Georgia’s voice slithered through her memory: “Kindness ain’t pretty. It’s got teeth.”

Evelyn’s arm slid off her face. Lanie’s eyes glinted in the low light—sharp, like she’d caught the tail end of a whisper. "Spread."

"What happened to hello?"

"Aesthetics department rejected your bronze unicorns proposal."

"For Shelter Twelve?? Kids love mythological genocide motifs–"

"No. Spread your legs idiot."

Evelyn obeyed. Lanie bent, tongue dragging over the heart-shaped charm—slow, like she was licking a wound. The metal tasted like old pennies and Georgia’s perfume. Heat prickled under her lips, the rubies humming like a struck tuning fork.

Evelyn jerked. “The hell—?”

“As loud as you want,” Lanie growled, mouth closing around the charm. She sucked hard, teeth scraping grooves of Georgia that the metal retained. “Let the heavens hear you, princess. Bet she’s laughing her ass off right now.”

Evelyn’s hips bucked. “Fuck—that’s not—ah!”

Lanie pressed down, her tongue working the lock. The cage warmed, then burned. The chain glowed faintly, casting ruby shadows on Evelyn’s thighs. “Knew it,” Lanie hissed, pulling back just enough to sneer. “Can’t feel your own little worm, but you feel her, don’tcha? Like she’s right here—” She flicked the charm. “—milking you dry.”

“Bullshit,” Evelyn spat, but her voice frayed. Sweat slicked her collarbone.

“Just—fuck—bad wiring.”

Lanie snorted. “Bad wiring?” She dragged her tongue up the chain, slow as a knife draw. “This thing’s singing. You’re just pissed it’s my hand up your ass, not hers.”

“Lanie—”

“Beg.”

“Go to hell—ah!”

Lanie bit down. The charm seared her lips. Evelyn’s back arched off the bed, a high, keening wail tearing loose—too sweet, too soft, all for Georgia. Lanie didn’t let up, sucking like she meant to drain every drop of the ghost between them. Evelyn’s hands fisted the sheets, knuckles bleaching white.

“G-Georgia—” The name slipped, cracked.

Lanie laughed against her skin, breath hot. “There she is.”

Evelyn came with a shudder that nearly splintered the bedframe, a broken moan spilling out: “…hate you… love you both…”

Lanie didn’t stop until Evelyn collapsed, sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, chest heaving. She leaned back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Silence. Rain tapped the window like a bored ghost.

“That…” Evelyn rasped, voice frayed, “…wasn’t me.”

Lanie wiped her mouth. “Sounded like a church choir girl.”

Evelyn stared up at the ceiling. “That’s how she… Georgia made me want to be. With her.”

A beat and Lanie’s fangs showed. “Only her?”

Evelyn’s hand found Lanie’s fingers . “Fuck. Now you too.”

“Tried.” Lanie flicked the charm, still glowing. “You owe her a thank-you note.”

Evelyn rolled over, back rigid. “Clinic opens Tuesday. Neon pink.”

“With barbed wire trim,” she added flatly.

“She’d hate the color.”

“Adore the chaos.”

Evelyn rolled toward her. “Your turn.”

Lanie caught her wrist. “Nah.”

“Why?”

“Still tastes like her.” Lanie yanked the blanket up. “And I don’t share.”

Evelyn’s laugh cracked. She pressed her forehead to Lanie’s spine. “Selfish bitch.”

“Learned from the best.”

They slept undisturbed except for the three times Lanie’s lips made the pendant weep.

So what if Lanie stole the pillow? Well. Dragons hoard.
 
 
XXVI: Stitching in Circles

The closet stank of charity gala perfume and mothballs. Lanie flicked ash into a crystal tumbler engraved Phoenix Rising Foundation—For Georgia.

“Hold still,” Evelyn muttered around a mouthful of pins, adjusting the emerald silk cinching Lanie’s waist. “You’re squirming like a gutted eel.”
Lanie snorted. “Says the woman dressed as a disco ball reject.” She gestured to Evelyn’s hydra scale sequined gown, its hem shimmering like a fistful of bad decisions.

“Classic,” Evelyn drawled. “Unlike your—”

Lanie’s elbow jerked, red wine sloshing across Evelyn’s bodice. The stain spread like a fresh bruise.

Silence.

“Oops.” Lanie grinned, all teeth. “Guess the universe prefers déjà vu discounts.”

Evelyn’s knuckles whitened around the wine-soaked hydra hide. “Fix. It.”

Lanie snapped her fingers. Nothing. Again. The stain smirked back, unbothered.

“Hydra scales are Magic-proof moron,” Evelyn spat, thumb dragging over the codpiece straining against the dress.

Lanie’s growl rattled the lightbulb. “Fine. What’s the damn price?”

“Price?” Evelyn’s laugh was a scalpel. “This hide’s rarer than your remorse. Took tears from three warlocks and donated sheddings from a virgin hydra.”

Lanie bared teeth. “I’m a dragon. I’ll scorch realms and honour my promises. Ask.”

Evelyn’s smile split. “Already did.”

Threads swarmed. Lanie jerked back, but they struck like vipers, stitching through her jacket, her skin, her snarl.

“Ev—”

Silk strangled the protest. Scales melted to lace.

Evelyn held up the dress, flimsy red lace shot through with gold threads, barely enough fabric to dignify a handkerchief. “There. Debt paid.”

*Of course Claymaker. Should’ve known you’d pick something that screams ‘back-alley burlesque.’* (note to readers..telepathic talk will be contained in *content here style*)

Evelyn stepped into the lace, fabric clinging to every scar and curve. Nipples pressed against gauze like rivets, and the codpiece strained. Lanie's silk threatening to split over her bulge.

“Jealous it complements my aesthetic?”

*Your ‘aesthetic’ got us banned from three realms.*

Evelyn trailed a finger down the bodice, brushing the chastity cage beneath. The heart charm—Little Georgia—glowed, honeyed warmth seeping into the lace. A shiver crawled up her spine. “Fuck… didn’t need you in skin to make me throb.”

*Stop—*

Evelyn ground against the dress, lace rasping like a blade on stone. “Make me.”

*Don’t—*

The rubies pulsed. Heat coiled, thick and syrupy, as Evelyn’s moans vibrated through the threads.

*…dammit Ev… don’t…don’t.. Fuck yes…drench me…*

Evelyn unloaded with a gasp, golden essence from the piercing pooling in the lace. She slumped against the mirror, breath ragged. “…miss her.”

*…miss her too.*

Silence, broken only by the drip of honey on tile.

*Fine. Dress duty. But you’re making dinner tomorrow.*

Evelyn straightened, sweat glazing the lace. The dress suddenly cinched around her cage, pressure building like a hungry mouth.

*Bet you never had a dress that could suck.*

The charm clicked, rubies flaring. Evelyn jerked. “Cheap trick.”

*Complaints go to management. And I’m working overtime tonight.*

Evelyn smacked the bodice. “Hush.” The lace purred, compliant.

“There.” She adjusted the codpiece, lanie’s own disjointed crotch against hers, bulge defiant, nipples gleaming, whorishly by choice, under ballroom lights.

“Now you’re useful.”

*We deserve hell.*

“Keep squeezing, darling,” Evelyn smirked, sauntering out. “I’ll handle the logistics.”

*Save me a seat.*

Evelyn just laughed. “I’ll bring the lighter fluid.”

The dress might've whispered traitor, but dragons are exceptional liars.
 
 
Continued in Part 10