Fan-Mail 1, Part 1: Early Morning Collation

Tyalangan

Tyalangan wakes up with Tina nuzzling into her breast. Josie has the sea elf wrapped up in a side hug as she rests her head on some blue abs. Nyadia is purring in her sleep, holding the bonny bunny from behind. She scratches the nearby beastkin girl ears as she summons her tablet, checking for overnight notifications. Oh. Fan-mail is in. Time to go pick it up.

Three kisses to her bedmates, a few Misty Steps, and one rope transformation resolution later, the Host is standing at the door of the Harem Hotel retail store. A bleary-eyed Little Miss glowers at her, then goes to drag the fan mail sack from the back. Tyalangan grabs the bag, deposits it into her inventory, then tips Little Miss with a small sack of gold. Again, the pink-haired cat-girl grumbles as she goes back to bed.

Tyalangan hits her office and pours a cold-brew coffee from her inventory. She goes through the efforts of collating and pre-screening letters. Not to steal presents like Lucian, more to get an advanced peek of the potential nonsense. She even has some letters of her own. Might as well start there.

The first letter on the pile for her is very familiar. Arabella’s stationary, with a thickness to it that belies a long letter and something more. Tyalangan pulls out a pen knife and swipes underneath the wax. Letter unfurled, another sealed letter falling out of it, she reads a note from her pen pal:

Dear Tyalangan

I keep almost writing Harper, and then catching myself, and then deciding it counts as both of them anyway. Bear with me. The name I think of you by still lives somewhere in the neighborhood of "the first person outside this island who actually got it," and that name is Harper, and I suspect it always will be. I hope that's acceptable. If it isn't, please let me know. I may slip sometimes, but I'll eventually get it right.

First, congratulations on the new season. I've been following what Arabella has been willing to share with me, and I want you to know that whatever the world-saving stakes look like from the inside, from the outside it looks like a person doing a very hard job with real care for the people in it.

I also want to say — and I don't think I said this clearly enough at the time, or maybe ever — that your letters got me through more than a few nights where the right answer felt very far away. You were the first person who wrote to me because we were in similar strange conditions, and I would not have navigated the contest the same without that. So: thank you. I know it costs something to maintain correspondence when you're running a season that has the literal fate of your home world attached to it. The fact that you kept writing anyway is not something I've forgotten.

Now, to business.

Mona wrote to me, and I wrote back as best I could: some thoughts on navigating the game, on finding the line between authority and care, on the fact that it's okay not to have it figured out yet. She's in over her head and she knows it, but she's also trying harder than she's giving herself credit for, and I told her so.

What I couldn't address in a letter to Mona — because it wasn't something I wanted to put in writing to her directly — was Craig.

I've seen enough of your season to understand what happened on that first date. What I saw was not a misunderstanding, not a miscalculation, not someone who got carried away. What I saw was someone who was told to stop and didn't. Who heard her distress and treated it as irrelevant to what he wanted. And who, from what Mona described in her letter, did not appear to have understood, afterward, that anything had gone wrong. I know you punished him, and he seemed repentant. But in my experience, sometimes that's just a mask. And while Mona is a horny little gremlin, I can't stand by and watch while Craig hurts her or manipulates her.

I've enclosed a letter for Craig. It is not a gentle letter. I tried to write it without anger, because anger tends to let people dismiss what's being said, but it is direct, and it does not leave much room for misinterpretation about where I stand, or what I believe the consequences of continued behavior like this would look like. I ask that you read it and decide whether to deliver it. You know your season, you know the dynamic, you know whether it would do any good or whether it would make things harder for Mona. I trust your judgment on this completely. I only wrote it because Mona's description suggested he might not hear anything softer, because it might be more effective to hear from someone he has not met and therefore cannot dismiss easily, and I'd rather have it exist and go undelivered than not have it at all.

I'll leave that with you.

There's something else I need to write to you about, and this part is harder, because I don't fully understand what happened yet, and I don't like writing to people I respect when I'm still in the middle of not understanding something.

Ereshkigal was at the ball. The one Arabella built for the Fifth Challenge. She came in the middle of everything — I don't even know if any of the girls saw her — and she danced with me and she spoke to me, and the compulsion that silenced everyone else in the room simply didn't apply to her. She told me her Edict had been used to return a mortal life, and that the price was a mortal life, and that the law does not bend. She said it was not my fault. She said she wanted me to enjoy what was left while I could. And then she told me to enjoy my evening, and walked out of the room, and I stood there for a few seconds before the word Edict surfaced in my memory and I understood who I had been dancing with.

I don't know what to do with this. I don't know what I can do with this.

I know you faced the divine and came out the other side. I'm not going to pretend I haven't thought about that. I turned it over. And then I put it down, because I don't think it applies here, and also because I don't think that's who I want to be if I can avoid it. What she said stayed with me. It sounded like she's the executor of the law, not the maker of it. She didn't want this. She told me there was no blame applicable to any of us, and I believed her — she's not the kind of being who says things to manage your feelings. She said it because it's true.

But I don't know what the law is, not all of it. I don't know what the precise terms are. I don't know whether what's coming for me is what I think it is, or what I'm missing. Arabella knows more than she's said, I think. Anna knows more than she's said. There are things in this hotel and on this island that I still haven't dug into far enough, and I've been operating on the assumption that I had time to get there. I'm less sure of that now.

What I've decided is that the last round is going to involve asking every question I've been putting off. I'd like to understand what's actually happening before it happens. That seems like the minimum I can do for everyone involved.

If you have thoughts, I'll take them. If you've heard anything from your end about the mechanics of Ereshkigal's debts that I might not have access to, I'd be glad to know it. No obligation.

On a far better subject:

Arabella is planning the weddings for the end of the round. Plural, because there are several women I intend to marry, and some more may join on the way. Arabella being Arabella has apparently decided this is going to be an Event. I am choosing to find this charming rather than alarming. The point is: you are the first pen pal I had in this place, and you have been — I don't know how to say this without it sounding smaller than it is — a real friend, across a distance most people couldn't navigate. I want you there. Whenever the formal invitations go out, I'm going to make sure yours comes directly from me. Bring Skye. Bring Scarlet. Bring Alex and Daphne and anyone else who can make the crossing. The plus-one language on the invitation will technically not cover the number of wives you have, but I suspect Arabella will find the situation more amusing than challenging.

Whenever this is all over, I'd genuinely like to visit. You have a drow wife, an oread wife, a goth punk wish, a high elf wife, a mermaid wife, and more that I have not nearly heard enough about. You are the queen of your own queendom, and I own a parcel of land in your queendom with cows on it, and at some point all of this needs to be seen in person. In the meantime: thank you, Tyalangan. I don't know when we'll talk again before the wedding, aside perhaps from your reply, so: I hope the season goes well. I hope the world gets saved. I hope whatever you're carrying right now is bearable, or at least shared.

Give my love to all your wives and to your children, whose names I am slowly learning and whose letters I keep. Tell Alex her plushies are in a place of honor. Tell Aelenetheria that her letter to Myra mattered more than she'll ever know.

Take care of yourself, Harper. I mean that.

Andy Cooper

Master, The HH — Current Season

Founder and possibly only current member of the Masters Support Group who is still actively panicking

P.S. — [The Consort] here. Andy has gone to get coffee and I have commandeered the pen because there are three things he will not say himself.

One: he has read his letter to Craig. So have I. He called it "direct." I would call it "the written equivalent of someone picking up a table." Do not be surprised if Craig is found shortly afterward in a state of reflection. If he is not, he really should. I can sense Andy's anger through the bond, and the bond usually doesn't carry anger, so do with this info what you will.

Two: Andy can be too nice sometimes. If Craig hurts Mona again, I will personally ask Arabella to introduce me to him. I don't know yet what I would do when I got there, but I've had some very creative thoughts about it, and none of them involve being gentle. Andy said I'm not allowed to threaten people in correspondence. I'm not threatening. I'm making a promise. There's a difference. The polite version is that if he hurts her again, I would personally like five minutes in a room with him and no witnesses and I am genuinely not sure whether you'd need a transformation to clean up afterwards. The impolite version is not suitable for correspondence.

Three: I want to meet you. You've helped Andy when he really needed it, and that means more to me than you might imagine. He showed me some of your letters and you've been at his side through unimaginable distance. With the exception of the other women in this harem, I don't know anyone else who could sustain that for so long. You are one of a kind, plus you got a really cool rocker wife with whom I have a lot to discuss. So: yes to the visit. And if we end up on that land with the tiny painted cows, I will bring the wine.

Also if Eilistraee and Inanna are never formally introduced, I will personally see to it that they are seated next to each other at the wedding. Andy says I'm bluffing. I am not bluffing.

— [The Consort]

Now, Tyalangan is not one to swap out the envelopes, but she can see the point of the practice. She pops the letter’s seal, read the contents, found it appropriate, and used Prestidigitation to reseal it. Granted, she felt the urge to stick a little added note to it; Tyalangan IS one to add notes to envelopes. And, a Host perk, she can be sure that those notes stay attached.

She addresses the camera, “Andy, I’ll write a proper reply once I have a few moments. Your letter will be delivered. I watched your challenge and saw that dance. I do have some ideas, but it would be better delivered as a letter. I know Arabella is very spotty about letting you watch these replies, so sharing my thoughts out loud may cause more harm than good.”

“I am looking forward to your weddings. And some post-game visits. We’ll coordinate.”

“To the lovely consort, I have taken your promise to heart. It shouldn’t be necessary, but I will have an appropriate room prepared, just in case. Let me know if you’ll need anything in particular. I look forward to meet you as well, you impossible woman. And I’m sure the Moonlit Dancer will crash the wedding, whether she’s invited or not; she loves a party.”

The next letter is actually a scroll, tied tight with a ribbon smelling vaguely of brimstone. Tyalangan approaches this one a little more cautiously. Mage Hand to let her open it with enough distance, just in case. Her paranoia was unfounded. Pulling the letter to herself, the handwriting is of one that writes as if the English script is almost an insult. She reads:

Tyalangan,

You've got to punish Craig more. I know you want to be kind but there's a certain kind of contestant who will not get the message unless punished constantly for being out of line. He understands he can't use ****, but he still hasn't accepted his position as subservient to Mona. I speak from experience when I say that a bad contestant will not save themselves unless **** to, and having every possible alternative to accepting their position systematically eliminated. You had a good start at correcting Craig, but at this point he either needs to be thrown into a dyad until he learns to behave, or otherwise have a much more forceful hand kept on his behavior.

Outside of that, I think you've done an excellent job given you are having to be in a position you've primarily experienced as a victim. In addition, you have many responsibilities outside of being a host, given you're a parent of many and a monarch.

Sincerely,

Vizrokoth, a Demonic Host with a warded name

“My dear, demonic co-worker, first of all, thank you for allowing me to help Felix. I hope he and his are doing well over there.”

“I am just as frustrated with Craig as you and most of the audience are. He is certainly **** now. Still trying to scurry out of the situation like a rat. Assuming he survives to the next transformation round, the dyad may be an interesting solution for him long-term. Not a memory upload like Tessa, a proper dyad.”

“Thank you for your positive estimation of my efforts. That is appreciated.”

Another letter for her, this one considerably less expected:

Harper,

One of your contestants is apparently aware of me, but not very bright. They have written me a letter calling themself Craigetta and blatantly lied about your master and their first date. I know full well that your season's master is a woman and that 'Craigetta' is not. The worst part is they ask me to bail them out of the situation they caused, not considering that I would have to find out who they really are to do so if I did not already. I am far more inclined to offer these points I have somehow earned to your season's master, so that she may spend them how she wishes on this oaf. I would suggest an increase in IQ, but that may be a waste if they will just be eliminated. They also apparently have no idea that what happened to poor Steven was a reflexive defensive act, and not my choice. Despite my distaste for this individual, I will ask you to not eliminate them though. It would be better if they had the opportunity to become a better person with some encouragement applied instead. I am, you understand, rather opposed to the concept of eliminations. They are a dead end for the contestant that hurts the master, even if they seem to deserve it.

Shar

Of all of the people to advocate for saving Craig from himself, Shar is not the one who I would expect...

Tyalangan pops Vix out of her familiar pocket space and gives the former pervert an ear scritch. She looks into those cute fox eyes and sigh.

“I am aware of Craig’s movements. I am aware that he made pleas to both Kikki and you to get out of a mess of his own design. Honestly, earning the points he needed is easier over here than even with your niece’s harem. He really doesn’t have the excuse. But you are right,” the sea elf concedes, doting on her eliminated contestant all the while, “eliminations are terrible. A dead end, as you phrased it. I will take your request under advisement.”

The next letters for the office are in a set. Both envelopes are in gold foil. She opens the one addressed to her and reads:

Tyalangan,

I have been watching you since the beginning of your time as a Master (or Mistress, depending on how you view your pre-transition gender identity), and am happy to see how you’ve grown since then. I am enjoying the season thus far, and hope you continue to do good things. I have particularly enjoyed the transformations. There were very few that I saw that I actively did not want to see on a character. This is hopefully a good sign of things to come.

I do hope that you would include more proper feminization transformations for at least one of the future contestants you add. Perhaps, if you don’t want to **** what was done to you on someone else, you can add a trans girl? But I digress. Something you simply MUST do is thank your show runner for the work he does. Turning the amount of footage you supply into enjoyable television is a difficult task that he succeeds at quite admirably.

Wishing you success,

Aurelia

“Thank you for the compliments, Aurelia. It’s nice to hear from a fan in the audience. So few take the opportunity to actually write in for fan-mail. It’s almost a misnomer to call these exercises that. Keep on writing in; one day, you may be the new Hardric.”

“I have been quite supportive of my show-runner, at least, since Daphne pointed it out to me during that Marcie and Gina review answer segment we recorded. Lots of very tasty sea sponges. See?”

Before reading the other letter out loud, Tyalangan takes the time and effort to get some especially delicious sea sponges plopped into the office aquarium. A sea slug crawls away from the computer it was mashing it’s face into and starts to rasp the sessile prey items:

Dear Showrunner,

I wanted to take a moment to appreciate what you do. Your work is valuable, even if those in charge do not recognize it. I hope they treat you with more respect and offer you the friendship you deserve.

Big fan of yours,

Aurelia

It wiggles and waggles happily, then crawls towards its Speak ‘n’ Spell. It mashes its face into the waterproofed child’s toy, where the machine intones, “THANK YOU. TYALANGAN HAS BEEN GIVING ME MUCH RESPECT, NOW THAT SHE KNOWS I EXIST. I LOOK FORWARD TO CONTINUING TO WORK WITH THE STAFF HERE, WHO HAS MOSTLY NOT THREATENED TO EAT ME LIKE ON THE LAST SET. THERE WAS THAT ONE TIME WITH DAPHNE, BUT SHE HAS APOLOGIZED.”

Nodding at her show-runner, Tyalangan moves on to the next letter. Thick cream envelope, brown wax seal. A letter that feels from Arabella, if the Host spent several decades trapped in perpetual HR professional development conferences. Another swipe of a letter opener, and the sea elf begins to read:

Queen Tyalangan,

Thank you for extending the invitation to participate in your season’s fan mail exchange. Producer X was, predictably, delighted by the chance to make himself someone else’s problem in writing. I appreciate the courtesy of the offer, and I recognize the value of carefully managed inter-season correspondence when contestants are stable enough to process it.

At present, however, our contestants are only on their third day inside the system. They are still acclimating and exposure to other active seasons would introduce comparisons, fears, expectations, and tactical assumptions that are not presently accounted for in their schedule. More plainly: they are too fresh, and I will not add another destabilizing variable simply because it would make interesting mail.

For now, any correspondence from our side will be limited to Producer X, myself, and carefully selected notes from Van where appropriate. If circumstances change, I will revisit the matter. Until then, please accept our thanks, our caution, and Producer X’s sincere disappointment that I have refused to let him send the contestants “field trip brochures for trauma.”

“I understand the situation, Verena. The idea that there are other seasons going on simultaneously is one that requires a proper reveal. Timing is everything with this sort of thing. Thank you for the correspondence you have sent. I am sure that they will be helpful, in their own way.”

With a pause, she adds, “And I will look forward to Mr. X’s vacation suggestions next time.”

The next letter smells of Cuban cigars and has a sticker of Mr. X sealing it. The image of the Producer winks through his signature sunglasses as Tyalangan plays with the envelope’s angle. Bemused, she opens and reads it:

To Queen Tyalangan,

Congratulations. By now, most seasons have either found a rhythm, detonated their central emotional premise, or begun pretending those are different things. Yours has the particular charm of a tabletop campaign designed by a therapist, a pervert, and a filing error. Everyone appears to have arrived carrying a past, a class role, and at least one feeling that should have been handled in private years ago. [Verena’s note: Producer X considers this an elegant premise. He is being complimentary.]

From one production professional to another: preparation is not the same as control, and experience is not the same as wisdom. A century of planning can still miss the small place where someone breaks. You may have built a better cage than most, perhaps even a beautiful one, but a beautiful cage remains a thing with bars. Still, if your cast has made it this far, then perhaps they have done what good casts do: become stranger, stronger, and more inconveniently human than the format accounted for. Pay attention to that. It is usually where the real season begins. [Verena’s note: Producer X attempted to end this with “also, stop naming mechanics like a horny dungeon master with a concussion.” I removed it. Mostly.]

Ah, a fellow note adder. Bold of Verena to add commentary to her producer’s letter. Hope Mr. X is as affable as he seems to be.

“I humbly accept your high praise of my efforts, good sir. I hope I continue to please. As far as the advice goes, I will think on it. Almost a week in and I have already learned that having experienced the other side of the Master’s Suite is not a substitute for the wisdom needed to hold this ragtag group of people together. I can use more lessons in keeping them from falling apart, should you be interested.”

The Host sits back, her letters done. Before she starts to pen proper replies, she prepares the stacks and scan them, resealing letters as she goes. Nothing too dangerous here. Let’s see how it goes.