Character Master unrolls a watercolor painting on a scroll. It's a traditional Chinese painting of a delicate-looking young woman with her long black hair elaborately arranged, clad in Chinese red silk, wearing bejeweled lacquer combs in her hair.
Hera's look could set fire to the painting. "At least she's pretty. In an insipid, pale way."
Coming from Hera, the backhanded compliment is more withering than a string of curses and swearing to rip the young woman's heart out and feed it to the eagles.
"Everyone calls her Qilin," Character Master says, ignoring Hera's subtle barb.
"As in the mythical beast?" Daji looks impressed.
"That would be accurate," Character Master replies, stopping to pet Krakthulhu, who's meandering around at our feet. "My, these baby Old Ones are winsome."
"He's not such a baby anymore," I say, and Krakthlhu blows eldritch bubbles at me. They're dark and I swear I can see proto-universes in them, but they vanish in an eyeblink.
