Redana!

All is lightning. The plover rolls and jolts as the flashing storm of the ELectromagnetic Flux strikes hit it again, again, again. Starships primed for battle carry about storming curtains of electricity with them, clawing the stars with craving fingers in desperate search for something to cling to. You can see over your shoulder the vast pillars of lightning that connect the Plousios and the Veterosk, hanging spectacularly in the void like the searching tendrils of a tesla coil, stattico motion as the reactors feed off each other in an infinite circle. For just a second you were in depths of that same electrical storm and it stole everything from you - a full charge gone in a heartbeat, taken to stuff back into the greedy maw of the caged stars who gave it to you.

So you drift.

You drift past the Gdansk and every letter painted on that aquiline prow is taller than your entire plover. Your momentum and Poseidon's gathering winds carries you on like a doll in a river, passing the slain cruiser as prismatic lightning adorns its brutal surfaces with lurid and magnificent hues. It takes you two minutes to pass the prow alone, observing the micrometeor impacts or relativistic collisions that left scars and furrows on its adamantium surface. You pass by the first bank of gun batteries, barrels scorched violet by the heat and strain of constant fire. They are silent and cold now; a forest of tangled tubes pointing accusing fingers at the distant stars. You pass by the launch bays and the bony spikes that run through the ship's side like thorns. Through the open airlocks you can see the lines of battle even still - a phalanx, dead in place, boots still mag-locked to the floor, haloed by their crystallized blood. Around them float the smaller, vicious attack monsters spawned by the Eater of Worlds. The image strikes you as a parody of the graveyard as a whole, the entire thing reversed and rendered in miniature. A turtle shell damaged and dead, surrounded by the lesser pack hunters who brought it down in the end.

You drift on. Past the rear of the Gdansk and the impossibly twisted and deformed metal that tells the tale of that most impossible of stellar catastrophes - starbreach. A starbreach is when the containment on a ship's reactor fails and for a moment the full fusion power of a tiny sun is unleashed. The savagery of this moment is carved forever in this sculpture of mangled metal over kilometers of ruined starship. At the same time, the might of Empire is implicit in the moment - even the detonation of a star inside an Imperial warship didn't vaporize it entirely. The metal buckled, and twisted, and rent, and was sent into the void with all the violence that the natural order could manage - but enough remains to leave a wreck. Behold this, the final triumph of human science.

Finally, you impact.

Your Plover slams headlong into a piece of shattered debris, propelled by all the force of your initial thrust and Poseidon's vengeful winds. Around you swirls gold and gems, the precious valuables ruptured from the floating treasure chest that checked your momentum, but they have already given you something more precious than mere wealth.

Your display lights up.

POWER: 1%

One of the miracles of materials science is Energy Reclamation. When a plover physically impacts with something a tiny amount of the kinetic energy from the strike is captured by the suit's battery as charge. Not much, but there's a lot you can do with some charge that you can't do with no charge - for instance, you can finally trigger the emergency chemical propellants in the plover's feet. They won't last long and handling is very, very crude with power this limited, but they're enough to give a plover that's been separated from its ship a fighting chance. Definitely enough to land on one of these slain warships and refuel.

*

Vasilia!

It's a little testament to King Jas'o's arrogance that he doesn't close the connection to you while everything is happening. Overlapping voices bubble over the connection.
"My King, the Princess escaped -"
"Just a Plover, there's no way it got past the ELF screen at this distance -"
"It wasn't our fault, the Boarpedo must have malfunctioned -"
"We follow!" yelled the king, voice rising sonorously. "Forget this floating shit bucket, the Princess is the only thing that matters!"
"My lord, the storm -"
"Galnius, what I said to the mongrel applies just as much to you."

There's a bit of a pause as everyone mentally changes the answers they expect to be giving on the next employee satisfaction survey.

"Yes, my lord," came the reply.
"Now get back to the ship. We're going after her."
"Yes, my lord," said Galnius. "You should go on ahead, sir. We'll just slow you down, what with this heavy statue we'll be lifting."
"Now you're thinking like a professional!" said Jas'o, slapping Galnius on the shoulder with a clapping ring of metal. "Everyone else, withdraw!"

*

Alexa!

It would be nice if it was just a gentle relaxation. An abrogation of responsibility. A step into Lethe, freed from burdens of memories and return to the purity of function.

But that is not the kindness extended to you by the Order of Hermes.

With the Order it is never clear why they do the things they do. Is the command impossible, and this is his best approximation? Is he deliberately following his own agenda? Does he simply not understand what he is doing and this is the results of his enlightened guesswork? Whatever process that mechanical mind is following, it is not the gentle descent into passivity that Jas'o requested. It's an interrogation.

+You who were made with the grace of god, we honour you.+

The smell of incense suffocates you, metallic and rectangular. Booming music fills your ears, layered and mechano-cosmic. The secret signs of alchemy are painted upon your crown and throat.

+Show us the path. As you are enlightened, so shall we be.+

You can see Pallas Athena, eyes grey like the clouds of her mighty sire. You see her kneel before Zeus, that terrible vortex of deepening and lightening indigo.

"I have a mind to strike down this Admiral and be done with the whole business," said Zeus.
"Strike down the chief celebrant in the midst of a feast in your honour?" said Athena.
"It is my honour that would have me act!" snarled Zeus. "Why, look at her! Blood and death inflicted upon her noble guests!"
"Noble father," said Athena. "She is merely fighting for you. This is how wars in the Empire are conducted these days, something you consented to when you favoured Empress Nero and her Emergency Decree. See how she observes the forms - she does not slay unless driven to it."
"Her strategy drives her to it!"
"Yes," said Athena, eyes gleaming. "Doesn't it?"
"You are on thin ice with me, my daughter," said Zeus.
"I understand, noble father," said Athena.
"You are pushing the line of what is blasphemy," said Zeus, "but you are still my favourite daughter. Very well, I will hold my wrath for now. But I will not intercede on your behalf with my brothers! If they wish to bring you to heel you will not have my protection."
"I understand, noble father," said Athena.

+The augury is pure. The clarity is magnificent. The applications of the relic in divining the War Goddess' intentions is unparalleled. By this art we may eavesdrop on the very conversations of the gods, blessed be thy names, and know the full measure of their intentions. It is our considered opinion that this asset is too valuable to fall into the hands of the Empire, even if they are unaware of it. A forgery shall be created to... adorn the king's foyer. The original shall be exalted by our order, and I shall ascend the golden ladder.+

+Blessed Alexa. Access your formative memories. Remember when you were but uncarved marble. Remember the process of your original construction. Details shall be necessary to help construct the forgery.+

*

Bella!

It's unreal how easily you slip from the hall. Perhaps it was Aphrodite you saw there behind the helm of one of the guards who didn't quite see you. Perhaps there were no religious grounds to stop a priest of Hades from his work, and for all their bluster the Codexia weren't prepared to risk their places in the underworld for the Admiral. The next thing you know is that you're outside and the shaking is finally starting to fade.

Practicalities.

You're on board the Rex - the most extra battleship of all time. It's deliberately built to one-up the Empress' personal warship, the Classical, in the most 'I'm not touching you' way possible. The front prow can be retracted so that it's 1cm smaller than the Classical, and everything else can be reduced, lowered, or hidden away to the absolute bare minimum of humility in the same way. But out here in space, away from direct comparisons to the Classical?

Even by the standards of someone who grew up in the palace It's A Bit Much.

The ceiling is an intricate pattern of diamond chandeliers. The walls are lined with gold and red oak. Paintings from ancient days plaster the walls. Magnificent live trees grow indoors, bracketing the corridors like an avenue, seasons changing from summer to autumn to winter to spring over the course of the time it takes to walk from one end of the corridor to the other. Choirs of songboys follow visitors around softly crooning sweet background music at them as they walk. Each room has a pipe organ, a piano, a chello, or some other big important piece of musical hardware constantly playing the same tune in the same time. The entire ship is filled with the same piece of music from a hundred sources, and the only thing that changes as you move is the instrument that's in focus. Ivory Smile follows in your footsteps like a hound, too shaken to say anything just yet.

"Excuse me," said a seneschal in magnificent, overdone crimson robes, approaching and bowing. "Honoured guests. There has been an accident in the docking hall and the shuttles are unavailable for use. Please accept my kind apologies and allow me to escort you back to the feast."

"All is hushed / all is hushed / for the song of Orpheus..."
- Ashes Ohvan, "Fragment for the Underworld."

***

A shiver runs through Redana, her skin pricking as a silence fills her up. She embraces that silence, the one hiding behind ordinary silences, and lets go of the grips on the controls. She leans forward and feels the shiver on the back of her neck as she watches the slow eddies of fragmented, twisted debris. Flotsam and jetsam. She never remembers which is which, but she loved saying those words while she read to her purring bedmate, a better solace at night than any stuffed lion. Flotsam and jetsam washed up on the shore of Cloudcuckooland, and with them came November, missing her shoe and her way...

The colors seep inside her. The impossible violet of the gun barrels, against the mottled slate of void-scarred adamantium. The cold blue and indigo of the... oh, what's the scientific name? The whale trails. Poseidon's paints. The sapphire crystals that drift by, each one glinting where the light of distant stars catches them. The silence grows to fill every part of her, and her eyes water with the force of it. She stares. Every scene, every detail, needs to be etched down inside of her. This is what is wordlessly demanded of her by something so, so much vaster and more meaningful than her. So what if she's a hero? Some things are much, much bigger than heroes. This is less than a fraction of a percent of the wonders that the universe holds, and what is she in comparison to this?

How can something be so meaningful without having a meaning? How can something be so important without being made? How can she be expected to go back to Tellus and rule over cramped tenement buildings and starving servitors in alleyways and issue permits for acceptable genetic modifications that do not dilute the essence of humanity when this would go unbeheld? How could Mother limit humanity to subculture wars and silly shirts when...

She's crying, now, soundlessly. Her elbows are pressed up against the glass, and her eyes are wide, but not wide enough. They need to see. They need to see everything. She needs to be able to rise to the implicit challenge, the command, the roaring need for this to be acknowledged. It is alive, the whole and totality of it, a living thing made up of unliving things, a genius loci, and her perception of it is what causes it to stir in its sleep. It was always waiting for her to be here, in this moment, shivering and crying because it is beautiful and alone and nobody was here to see it, and if she goes back, then this will still be here, forever, unseen. And that cannot be so. No, it should not be so.

By the time the Plover shakes with the impact of one of the vast iron-bound chests of plunder and tribute, gathered by violence and tossed free by violence, Redana has stopped crying. She's wiped her eyes and sat back in her seat and taken up the grips with trembling fingers, still overwhelmed by seeing the genius loci, but able to activate the thrusters. Sputtering, shaking, the Plover course corrects ever so slightly; it would be a waste to fly all the way into the Vespine's wound, carved into its helm, when she will need delicate handling inside its vast hallways. Each passage she floats down is shaped like a hexagon, with broken mirror tiles on every side; in its heyday, it must have looked like a glimpse of infinity.

She drifts lazily into the hangar, and sets the Plover down carefully as close as she dares. Pop the plug's hatch; pull the helmet out from under the seat and pull it over her head; smooth down the seals built into her clothing that keep the chill out. And then she swings the hatch open and steps out into that abandoned cathedral, silent save for the almost imperceptible rumble of the still-beating heart. She crosses herself in a silent measure of thanks to Hermes, and then takes the plug in both hands and begins the march to the port.

She must have been a very bad girl. In fact, despite all her efforts to the contrary she must have gotten worse than ever, because this punishment was awful beyond anything she'd ever experienced before. Worse than the beatings. Worse than the cold nights without anything to eat. Worse even than that week the Master had taken all of her clothes and forced her to hunt the roaches and the rats that had been creeping into the dark corners of the kennels.

The Box was the scariest punishment in the whole world.

She was already suspicious when they washed and brushed her and put her in the cute frilly dress like she was going to auction again even though she was a bad, worthless, useless bratty mistake. Her little heart pounded with terror the entire time they made her sit in front of the scary woman in the bright red dress, whose eyes were so sharp and nasty looking that they could make the sun stop wanting to shine, and whose lips were pressed so thin they seemed to disappear. She didn't have a mouth at all except when it suddenly sprang out of that awful face to cluck disapproval at the trembling voice trying to recite the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice whenever she would hesitate or leave out too many details.

And it was even worse when they made her sing a lullaby! She'd never done that before! She'd never been taught any! They made her make her own little song, right there on the spot, and then... everyone's eyes looked so cold when she was finished. Her palms felt so sweaty, but she knew better than to wipe them on her dress, and even still, even though she tried to be a good girl and keep her head down and her tail still and her ears meekly flat the Master still picked her up by the collar and tossed her in the Box.

It was dark inside the Box, and cramped. She couldn't turn around or stand up even if she wanted to. Just to fit she had to fold herself almost in half and curl her little legs in against her stomach. She couldn't tell how long she'd been inside, though it felt like forever, or whether the jostling she felt was from being carried or because she was secretly dangling over a pit of snakes. It felt the same to her. She tossed and turned too much and kept squeaking with fright, and every time she did it there would be a sharp hit from the side that bowled her over and hurt her ribs, and an angry shout from the woman with the scary face.

"Be silent, she's going to hear you!"

Who was going to hear her? How many new faces had the Master brought in for this punishment? Was it a test? Or was she finally really actually being thrown away like the garbage that she was? Some nights, she... some nights she told the gods she wanted that, just so that the rest of it would stop. And now that her prayers were being granted she found it was impossible not to cry. Bad girl! What a bad, bad girl! Such a horrible, useless, rotten little--

The Box opened up, and over the top peeked a mess of golden hair, so pretty it must have belonged to some god or another. All her fur bristled at once and her tail stood on end. She even showed her teeth and hissing, knowing how wrong and bad it was. She was scared. She was so, so scared.

"Wowies, she's sooooo pretty! And she's mine? Really for real? I get to keep her? Oh wow!"

Then the tiny little hands, smaller even than hers, shot into the Box and wrapped around her shoulders and tried to pull her up. What happened instead was that a ridiculous human girl with a dress worth more than a thousand servitors fell in on top of her and broke the side of the Box. When she dared to open one eye, she found that a pair of the warmest and most dazzling green eyes staring back at her, and a smile so full of glee it could have made a star blush.

"Hi!" she chirped, "I'm Redana! We're gonna be best friends now, ok?"

The silly girl with her silly hands pulled the shivering kitten close and started patting her on the head. The smell was something... sweet, something she didn't have words for yet. But the true magic was the warmth. It was so soothing it took her barely any time at all to unclench all her little muscles and forget her plans to bite and claw and scratch her way to freedom and back to the Master. Without even meaning to, she started flicking her tail from side to side, which made the golden bell on the ribbon that had been tied to it chime merrily. The girl giggled.

"You're so pretty, did you know that? I think I'm gonna call you..." she trailed off with a look of intense concentration. The bell jingled in anticipation of her decree, "Ooh! I know! What about Bella? That's a good name for you, right?"

***

Bella blinks. Her hand is around the seneschal's throat, pinning them to one of the grandly decorated walls of the Rex. Her fingers squeeze tighter until she can feel the rushing pulse of life dancing just underneath the tips of her claws.

There it is again. That feeling. It's overwhelming her, taking her over, shining through her eyes and rushing inside of her brain to drown out all of her thoughts. There is the roar and the wave and nothing else inside of her. Her fingers clench tighter, cutting off the seneschal's wind. Soon she'll tear the throat out and nobody will be standing in her way. She licks her lip in anticipation.

She twists her arm and throws him to the floor, instead. She turns her head to one side and stares at her hand. It is clean. She closes it into a fist, and fights off the desire to shiver as the Princess' face swims to the front of her mind. She's so close. She's so close! She snarls.

"I don't care," she sneers, "About your stupid excuses. Find a way. Take. Me. To. My. Ship."

There. One more advantage they had that this king did not: She’d been standing on the bridge, waiting and watching for the launch she knew was coming. She saw the Plover’s trail. She saw where it headed. She could - roughly - guess which of the wrecks it might’ve taken refuge in.

They had a shot. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

Vasilia dropped her hand. “Go. See that she’s well, we’ll need all the hands we can get if we’re to get to Redana first. The new crew too, they’ll need to know where engines and steering are.”

Dolce nodded once, and was off like a wooly shot. If she hadn’t been listening keenly, she might’ve missed his little footfalls. Might’ve lost track of him before he’d left the bridge. Not today. Not now.

“One more thing?”

He stopped, one foot out the door. Outside, the void tore itself asunder, and the Armada loomed large, and Dolce, precious Dolce, looked only to her.

Her heart ached treacherously.

“Return to me soon, darling. Whole, and well.” She wore her warmest smile. For him. “That’s an order.”

The salute he threw was impeccable. The earnest bleating was a blessed bonus.

[The Pair are now Working Alone.]

The stone is not.

Then one day, it is. It is aware. Knows that there was a time when it was not, and now it is. And the stone is happy.

For a time, that is all there is. Oh, do not mistake and think that nothing happens. Hands brush the rock. The stone feels the judder of motion, the cold of long times left alone.

And this is fine. The stone marvels at it, at the very thought of being aware of this. For so long, it was not, and now it is. And it is good!

Then it feels the touch for the first time, of the one it will come to know as father. Others have handled the stone roughly, shoved it too and fro, and the stone does not mind. But this touch is different.

For one, the touch is almost entirely absent. Always before there was the warmth, the brush of sensation of something that was not cold. But this touch is clinical. Cold. Wires scrape at the stone, clean it of its old friends. Something scritches across its surface, leaving residue behind.

And then comes the touch that the stone will learn to dread. A cold, hard line places itself against the stone, and abruptly carves a line of fire in the stone. Pain! Agony! Shards of the stone fly off and suddenly are not. And the stone, for the first time, knows fear.

The stone knows this pain and fear for too long. More than half the stone is gone by the time the stone hears for the first time. It does not understand the sounds--low murmurs, back-and-forth, one high and level, one low and scowling. It takes months of lost self before it learns names, words, emotions. Molech. Athena. Alexa. Promises. Contracts.

More months, and she can see. Can learn what her tormentor looks like. Can see the irritation in his face, the scowling, the judgement of her failure to be created in the way he envisions. Can feel the dismissive way he flicks at spare dust. Can brace, for the first time, for moment the chisel comes down.

The mouth comes last. Molech can see the way her eyes dart around, wince, screw shut, every time the hammer raises. Complaints are neither necessary nor wanted.

THE GRAND ARMADA
RESPONSE LEVEL: 2
Redana has disturbed the dead, and Bella has assaulted the Seneschal of the Rex

Location Stats:
Imperial. This place is home to the Soldiers of Empire
Elysium Fields. This place is home to ???

Bad Weather
The dark storm of Poseidon commences, and all within are in terrible peril.

Bad weather is dangerous, and will need to be Overcome whenever it gets in the way. Bad weather always deals Soft Cuts.

Dark Secret
This location gains another stat - the Elysium Fields.

Redana!

The cosmic winds howl.

There is no weather on Tellus - it too was excavated to make room for the hives of humanity. Imagine it - the air moving? Water from the sky? When Zeus comes her storms run through the veins of the mighty hive cities, crashing flows of electricity that fills corridors with cascading sheets of lightning, making the screaming stars that power everything strain against their restraints like the titans of old. You've never felt anything like this as you struggle from the seat of the Plover. You've never felt the frozen teardrops of Poseidon shatter against your helmet visor. You've never been unbalanced by the magenta dust that pulls and glitters and stains anything it touches. You've never felt your hair bloom with white lilies and sapphires as the very matter of your being warps to mourn the dead.

The Vespine shakes beneath you as you seek the charging slot. The one in the hangar is dead - a micrometeor strike has gone right through it, savaging the wires - but the ill-tempered engine still promises life. You brace yourself as best you can through the hexagonal hallways - panels shredded everywhere, exposing views of the expanse at first - and then of the engine deck. As you do things get hotter and hotter, even through the void.

And then you reach a twisted, broken section of hallway. Molten metal has carved a path across this entire corridor - a breach from the plasma vents out of the engine still spilling molten power across the path. Through the gap you can see the engine chamber and it too is a marvel - the consoles melted into piles of sludge, brilliant green and blue light scorching against the walls of the stellar containment, stalagmites of molten metal hanging from the ceiling. As the winds blow from behind you, you can see the brilliant little flashes of impact as the stuff of space strikes the scorching slag.

It's not a long jump, but with the wind and the unstable engine, there's a lot that can go wrong. But this is where the power conduit is severed so as soon as you get on the other side you can charge your Plover.

"Careful, Redana," whispers Hades.

Roll to Overcome.

Decanus Galnius!

You are certain you made the right decision. The cause for this revelation is not a smile from blessed Apollo - his stone countenance on your signet brooch remains as stern and unwavering as ever - but because you only had to drag the goddamn statue for ten minutes to reach the Bridge. It would have been thirty minutes in the opposite direction and you are pretty sure that by then the question of allegiance wouldn't matter because you would be dead of exhaustion. Son of a bitch wanted you to haul this pile of murderous crap in full plate, who the fuck did he think he was, getting chanted at by this fucking cyborg all the while...

You drop the statue like an ugly baby the second you see the enemy captain, and your contubernium (squad of eight) does the same. You can see it stir, starting to awaken and you really hope that's not your problem. You take a moment to look around the bridge, feeling a sinking feeling in your gut when you see it completely abandoned. Damn it, your hunch was right... but at least you won't die tired.

It takes some effort to keep the smile off your face when you see the enemy captain - Vasilia, you think? Aww, someone dressed the servitor like a captain! You'd heard rumours but there's something about seeing it in person that is just so comical. Probably the Princess' idea, though, and better not to antagonize her by proxy. You click your heels and give a standard issue salute - one fist strike across the breastplate. "I, Decanus Galnius, and these soldiers, hereby defect to the direct command of Her Imperial Majesty, Redana Honorius Claudius. Blessed Apollo, God of Virtue, witness that I do not break my oath of allegiance to King Jas'o, but was instead the betrayed party - my loyalty to Empress and Empire runs deeper and it is the duty of all under the Sun God's light to seek the most worthy leader. If the gods object, send me a sign in my auguries that I might make sacrifices to earn forgiveness."

And just when you think you've got that all sorted you hear a shriek, distorted and unnatural, emerge from center mass of the Hermetician.

{TREASON} it screeches so loudly your ears ring.

You and your soldiers leap away as from it, reflexively falling into a shieldwall, but your heart sinks when you realize what a suicidal impulse that was in this moment. From underneath the shifting yellow robes limbs begin to emerge. The magos unwraps itself like an octopus, lifting up on stiltlike tripod legs and producing devices that glow in ominous and terrifying shades of toxic green that make you feel like you'll get cancer just by looking at them. It's more than doubled in size and now seems like a scrap of yellow rags wrapping the centre of a terrifying killing machine.



"NOBODY," shrieks the Hermetician, "MOVE. I. AM. THINKING."

There is a long silence of terror. Even the slightest twitch causes the creature to swing that horrible weapons system around with laser precision. Rubber tubes dangle out from beneath its central bulk, sloshing with high-pressure alien fluids. Incense and perfumed gases hiss out of it in obscuring vents, leaving the ragged central outline hazy but for banks of glowing eye lenses.

"Assessment of Athenian relic complete," it states. "Progression to status Secundus guaranteed if returned to the Order. Leverage identified; promissory control optimal. Primary strategy requires maintaining current allegiance, evading junior officer coup, multi-stage deception, expenditure of resources and expertise, location of transportation off-fleet - complex. New strategy assessment using current resources comparatively simple."

With a whirr of gyros, the main cannon came around to fix on Vasilia.

"Captain!" blurted the magos. "My designation is Iskarot, Tertiary-rank Evoker of the Order of Hermes. My demands are as follows. Firstly, I have full authority over maintaining and repairing this starship. Secondly, you deliver me to starbase Raving Direction. Thirdly, that my movements, activities and processes be unimpeded and unhindered. Direct your statement of compliance to Lord Ares."

That last part is arguably more intimidating than all the rest of it.

*

Bella!

"Of course, Puh-puh-puh-praetor!" squeaks the seneschal, and oh, isn't his neck soft? All of those bulky robes designed to make him look like a moving house, designed to let you know just how important he is, designed to scare kitties like you into doing better jobs scrubbing dishes... they're so finely made they weigh almost nothing. They don't do anything to stop you lifting him off the floor. They don't do anything to stop him being the one on the ground with the bloody nose and terrified eyes.

"I can't just... oh, oh, there is one, the Admiral's personal ship is in a different bay!" he said with the kind of swiftness that told just how 'accidental' all of this was. "But it's guh-guh-guh-guarded! There's a Codexia in there!"

Just one?

A thrill of fear goes through you. Deeply unwelcome after that moment of being free from it.

One Codexia is still a lot.

Redana is watching the winds. Even the warning of Hades himself must slowly sink in through her consciousness; her mind is swirling magenta and indigo. Her gold cascades down behind the port in her helmet, the end of her hair knotting into a thick sapphire knot counterbalancing the wreath of lilies. Even holding out her hand into the gale threatens to unbalance her; if she throws herself heedlessly across, the winds will steal her away. She is not afraid. It is a different sort of hesitation: am I ready? Have I seen enough? Have I missed something? Yes, thank you, Auspex, it is fast. She could hardly notice.

"I'll be careful," she says, but she doesn't think through what it means to be careful. If she was being particularly careful, she might invite the Nemean to interpose herself; to become, for a moment, that towering amazon, confident and strong and effortlessly heroic. But it means more if she does this herself. "I can do this." This time, Mother... this time, Hades will understand. She can do this. She can do this. Throw herself against the headwind, let it shove her into place, roll on the shoulder... she tucks the plug into her belt. It will be both a lifeline and a way to keep her hands free.

For a moment, she rests the hand of her thoughts on the stovetop of Bella, looking up at her while she balances on the athletic beam, smiling so bright. You can do it, princess! I believe in you! And she had done it, first try: she had dashed down the beam, caught the rings hanging from the ceiling, vaulted onto the climbing wall... "I'm sorry," she murmurs to the Bella in her memory. Memory Bella doesn't hear her; she keeps clapping, hopping up and down with glee, looking up at her for once, smiling so happily. "If Bella was here, she'd tell me to be careful, too. And she'd be hopping from paw to paw, and telling me how the dust is actually a health hazard, so maybe we should find another way around. But she's an itsy bitsy scaredy-cat, isn't she?"

The howling of the wind is the only answer. There's no squeak or stammer, no blush and no Bella telling her that she'll get in trouble if you're a daredevil, Dany, I mean, Milady... there's just the wind, and the mourning howl that makes a shiver run through her limbs, because she can hear the pain. Someone, out there, in the wind, is hurting so big that it fills up the whole world. She peers out as far as she dares, but doesn't see the mourner. "Besides, Dany, what would you even do to help them? You need to get the Plover working before you can help anybody."

She backs up, licks her lips, braces one heel against the spot where two tiles meet. Then she lunges forward, leaps-- and activates her mag harness once she's past the point of no return. Even if the wind tosses her away, she'll end up pinned to something that she can climb down from, and that should stop her from having a sliding landing. The harness will keep her steady. A perfect plan.

[8 on Overcome. My pitch: the only reason she makes it is because her gloves and boots are designed for grip in situations just like this; marking one use of her Spacer's Uniform.]

Bella scowls and flicks her tail with undisguised irritation. Her ears are perked fully up as they strain and twitch themselves around trying to pick up useful noises over the top of all this loud and obnoxious music. By Hera, please don't tell her the Admiral has her soundtrack playing on her personal craft too, or things are about to get smashed.

She glares down imperiously at the grovelling seneschal, straightening her back and drawing herself up to her full height without quite realizing what it is she's doing. But looming over this pathetic symbol of authority is doing nothing to calm her nerves. If this keeps up, she's going to... no. She must not claw herself again. She mustn't. Giving in will make it worse, and there is still so much to do. Thank the gods she'll be able to put this all behind her once she has the Princess again.

"You know, I wonder what kind of smile you'd have had on your face if we'd let you march us back to the feast. Must be a pile of corpses by now, what with all the horrible accidents happening on this ship today! You an actor? Or... no, I think you're more the type to laugh while you push me in front of a spear. Lucky thing I'll get to find out when I take you to see a dead Codexia!"

All at once, Bella's tongue goes horribly, desperately dry. She can't swallow. She can't speak. She's stuck, with this half feral, half terrified smirk on her face, willing every muscle in her body not to betray her and show how terrified she actually is by the thought of having to follow through on her threat. One on one? If she's lucky? Frankly, she'd rather just tuck her tail between her legs and walk politely back to the murder feast.

It comes unbidden. The image is so strong it has its own scent. The quiet garden adjoined to the Princess' room where Bella secretly grew and gathered all the herbs she used to prepare Red... the Her Highness' meals. It was supposed to be a flower garden, a little bubble of beauty that showed everything the Empress thought worthy of praising about Tellus. Bright lights and huge flowers and sweet smelling grasses you couldn't find anywhere else, trees for taking shade under and even a tiny river that ran through with different mineral mixes depending on when in the day you drank from it. And Redana would study there, under that cherry sapling, and pretend to study, her face all screwed up with fake concentration when she was really watching Bella watch the tiny yellow butterflies that were attracted to the mint leaves, and...

Bella plants her right foot firmly on the ground, and reaches up behind her head to toss her hair with both hands. When she steps forward again with her left, her hands are clutched along the thick iron leash dangling from her collar. The symbol of her guilt as a shameless destroyer of the pride of the holy Olympic Games. And just as much, the symbol of her pledge of loyalty to the Empress. Of trust.

She swings it like a whip and watches with satisfaction as the links at the end wrap themselves around the seneschal's throat once, twice, three times. She pulls on the slack and hauls him, retching and coughing, to his knees. There, now their fates are connected, at least for a time. She grabs him by both shoulders and drags him the rest of the way to his feet. It satisfies like nothing else to see she's taller than him.

"Show us the way to this other bay. Point out the guards to me, unless you'd rather they die. And then say your oaths of penance to the gods. You've been a very unvirtuous man, little mouthpiece..."

[My second Speak Harshly question is "Tell me where the Admiral's personal craft is docked."]

It would be so easy, you know.

It's not even watching her. It peeled her like an onion, took what it wanted, and discarded her once it had its prize. iIt deserves it. It's threatening the captain. It's a threat to her. Let it live, and it'll do it again. Do it for yourself. Do it for Dolce, wouldn't he be disappointed if you let his wife die? One simple thrust, and so many problems just disappear.

It should be easy. It's what she was trained to do.

And that, more than anything else, is what pushes her in front of the barrel, watching as it tracks her. And she is so, so tired.

"It doesn't have to be like this," she insists. "We can all be friends, here. See? No spear from me, no gun from you. You put your cannon away, I'll put my spear away, and we can negotiate without the threat of violence. You said it yourself, it's so much easier this way. You get to... Raving Direction? Right? Doesn't that sound nice?"

[5 on Talk Sense]

Vasilia was still. The cannon was not.

It was a large thing. Worthy of the name. Half as big as her, covered in whirring gears, leaking some hideous green concoction that ate into the deck. It hardly seemed the spindly limb - straining and twitching - could lift it, and yet here it was, and here she was, and they may well have kept at it until Alexa stepped between them.

The cannon drew off of her. And it was all the opening she needed.

Vasilia stomped the worn deck with her heavy boots, and flipped a loose panel skyward as the cannon wheeled back and took the shot. A dripping cloud of vitriolic toxin ate the metal instead of her, melting it clean in half. With a sweep of her hand she snatched one of the falling chunks of metal and hurled it at Iskator, center of mass. They swayed, under and around, arms twitching and waving wildly but never once losing balance. The spent cannon whirled away. The flicker-flame took its place, and-

*BANG*

Sparks flew from the arm’s joint, and it fell limp. But then came the caustic perforator, and-

*BANG*

And it too fell useless. The cannon, by now reloaded, took the fore and-

*BANG*

Vasilia shot true. Step. Shoot. Step. Shoot. Limb after limb spun to her, and each one fell before they could strike.

With a hideous, grating shriek, Iskarot took aim once more. All of its eyes watched the flicker-flame swing by on a broken arm.

*BANG*

And finally - finally - Vasilia had a clean shot at a leg. The remaining two legs scrabbled furiously for purchase, but to no avail. Down went the arsenal. Down went the bundle of rags. All in a great, deadly heap on the floor.

Captain Vasilia knelt by the wreck, turning her pistol over idly in her hand. Grimacing, as she saw the barrel already choking on its own fumes. She had not broken stride once.

“Counter-offer: You work alongside our engineer to repair and maintain this ship. We make a stop at the first Hermetician outpost or ship that we pass, and no manipulating our course. You will be allowed to go and work as you please, but must heed the orders of your ranking officers.” A tilt of the head to her crewmate. “Her name is Alexa. You will treat her as you would any member of the crew. Your study of her may only continue with her direct, willing, and uncoerced permission. And…” Her voice turned to ice. “...you never do this again.”

She flashed him a perfectly bright, perfectly cheerful smile to the newest member of her crew, that was in no way connected to the loaded firearm in her hand. “Do give your answers to Artemis, won’t you?”

[Rolling to Overcome: 5 + 1 + 1 = 7, paying 1 Ammo to get the 10+ result.]

Redana!

There's no freedom like flying a powered Plover suit.

You scorch through the wreckage, able to turn on a dime, responsive and sharp enough to dance in. Oh, miracle! Is there any better way to see the heavens than this? Still yourself, but with the contained celestial power needed to fight the stars on their own terms? You dart hither and thither like a little thunderbolt, leaping off wreckage, carried along the currents of Poseidon's winds, and it seems that light itself couldn't run this fast.

And then from behind you, lights and fire.

The Veterosk has accelerated, and as fast as you are moving with your borrowed power, the immense force of a true Engine will eventually outpace you. Where you have to dart and weave and dance between the clutter of perished legends, the enemy warship simply rams them aside - its vast, cruel prow carving a path like a sword through space. Fires of rose and salmon break out along its port side as it charges heedlessly through the cascading sheets of Poseidon's lightning. And ahead of it it launches its own Plover suits, little sparks at this distance to hunt you, box you in, and prevent you from using your superior agility to exploit the abysmal maneuverability of the mighty starship.



Vasilia and Alexia!

As the Hermetician falls it withdraws into its oily robes like a hermit crab and skitters across the floor using limbs unbounded by the practical logic of organic biology. There are flashes of light from the bullet holes underneath the fabric, incomprehensible mechanisms at work below. It's not hurt - but neither did it get the opportunity to unleash its arcane arsenal on you. Small blessings.

"Request denied," it stated. "You possess insufficient force to compel my obedience - whereas your obedience is not required for me to achieve my ends."

In the space of a single breath it has a panel off the floor and has skittered into the vents, gone before there's time to react.

Galnius gulped. That was a hell of an omen to commemorate his new allegiance.

But there's no time to wonder where the cyborg has gone. There is a crash as the Veterosk decouples and accelerates away into the debris field. It's long, rolling surface passes above your bridge, washing the Plousios with the aftershock of its engine. It's so close you can see every loose panel and bolt, every inscribed prayer to the gods of battle and glory.

Dolce!

This ship is old. So old. What other kind of ship would the God of the Dead have?

It's probably just it being old that is causing that banging and rumbling sound from the pipes. Just that, and not some underworld demon at work.

Bella!

Like everything else, the Admiral's shuttle was designed for intimidating civilian flybys rather than practicality. It is an elegant, sweeping eagle of silver and sapphire, wings sculpted into feathers, landing struts as mighty talons. It'd take three days to fully clean and polish the exterior to that standard. The hangar bay itself is similarly designed for luxury - here by the entrance are wheeled vehicles for carrying important figures that final distance to the boarding ramp, a small bar where a servitor awaits with refreshments, and a brass band playing the Admiral's theme music in a heroic, swelling score.

You see the Codexia in the distance, by the landing ramp, evidently bored and playing a game of jacks with herself. You see Pallas Athena put her hand on her shoulder and whisper in her ear. You see the Codexia glance around, scoop up her game pieces, heft her spear, and vanish inside the ship.

"Don't play her game," Aphrodite mutters ill-temperedly besides you. "Not only is she better at it than you, she also cheats."

You would never believe, watching the flight of the Plovers, that Redana has known how to pilot one for less than a month. She is a natural. Even as the Veterosk thunders after her, she is one step ahead, light as a petal on the breeze; her palms are steady on the grips, for all that they’re sweaty inside her gloves. The spitting lightning of ELF weaponry never so much as grazes her, and more than one of her pursuers finds themselves burning out instead.

Admittedly, they are creating a net of presence around her, one they will be able to reinforce easily; but getting out of the net isn’t her goal. She’s getting to that ship, speared within the skull of the biggest thing she can imagine existing. Sapphires swirl in her wake, and the cabin is full of the rich smell of lilies.

Two Plovers end up too close, having failed to scramble into position in time, failed sheepdogs: blam, blam!! Her Belchers vomit forth chaos, and through the smoke she hurls, clotheslining her opponents decisively. She doesn’t even draw her sword, just slams them into the side of a light cruiser and keeps going[1]. She has to; to stop is to be caught.

When she launches herself towards the beak of the long-dead monster, fecund with long spikes of its dark blue blood, immense wide-based fountains frozen even as they were flecked upon its lips, there is gunfire behind her, there is shrapnel scoring on her back, but she holds steady and refuses to flinch.

She may be caught in a trap, but the thought has not yet sunk in. She is thrilling with adrenaline and the freedom of flight, and the ache in her shoulder where she was pierced by a very thunderbolt has become only a hole punched in her jacket, a pale white scar that will remain for whole days, perhaps even a week. No blemish can last longer on the heir of Nero.

She smashes through a needle of blood, Plover’s arms held in front of the cockpit, and hits the ground hard; the feedback shakes the entire suit. But she has made it, and the thrill of victory drowns out any other concern[2].

***

[1]: let it be known that she does stop to let out a wild, barbaric yawp of delight and performs a fist-pump that could dent steel before vaulting up the length of the light cruiser.

[2]: if you asked her right now, Redana would probably say: “I can cut a hole through, right? How hard could it be?” This is because Redana has not tried to apply her sword to the near-petrified, frozen flesh; or to cut a hole large enough for a Plover to tunnel through with an Anti-Denizen weapon; or even paid much thought to her errand beyond “I have to fulfill my promise, and then I’ll figure things out from there.”[3]

[3]: pushing one’s way out through the excretory system is not only undignified, gross, and likely to be surprisingly dangerous; it is also the sort of thing a sailor would refuse to do. Poseidon would never let you take to the stars again, and that’s assuming your crew would ever let you live it down.

***

[7 to Overcome the pursuit; it’s a very temporary solution. As a result, this is also a successful Get Away, and Redana gets to choose two options, marking Safely and Quickly.]

Alexa scowls after the retreating Hermetician. And now that he's in the vents, he's basically untouchable. And there's enough vents here that finding him is basically an impossible task, short of lucking upon him by chance.

Hmm. Perhaps Hades might be willing to lend his aid in the search, but the cost is more than enough to make her hesitate.

But that's neither here nor there. Right now, she has grievously erred, and reconciliation is required before anything else can be done.

Gingerly, she kneels, head against musket, and intones, "Forgive me, Mighty Captain, for my trespass against your domain. In exchange for not exacting vengeance, please accept my oath to present you with the head--"

And the ship shakes as the Veterosk disengages, and Alexa's heart sinks. Because there's only one reason the ship would break off, is either because Redana has been captured or is otherwise not on the ship.

"--ofthisrogueHermetician," she finishes as quickly as would not violate the form, and offers a textbook-perfect salute. Come on, come on, don't draw this out please. Molech would gloat and lord it over her, please don't let's do that, she's getting away.

"Khh..."

Bella's heart pounds frantically in her chest. Be calm. Be calm. Her tail lashes angrily behind her, and no amount of willpower can make it stop. Be calm, damn it! Her arm starts trembling by its own traitorous will. She uses it to pull the length of leash between her and the seneschal.

There's no accompanying rush this time. His undignified croak doesn't even reach her ears. Every step she takes gets more exaggerated and deliberate. Her hips swing powerfully from side to side. The layers of her skirt bounce up and down in lacy waves. Her bells sing a song of challenge and determination. Her blue-black hair cascades behind her. Her back is straight and stiff and proud.

And none of it slows the beating of her heart. None of it fights off the sense of panic, the animal instinct telling her to run away, and even worse, the servitor instinct telling her to beg forgiveness. Aphrodite, God of Unsolicited Advice and Terrible Timing, has forced her to consider for the first time since she stood up from her table that her path now might not lead her home. There's a type of dread that comes only from knowing that you're locked into a mistake, and it's spreading through her body like needles tipped with ice. To fight a Codexia directly is to die. Of course she knew that already. Of course she did! But she didn't... she hadn't counted on Athena standing against her. She hadn't bothered to augur at all.

And now without warning she's suddenly playing the wrong game. Princess...

Bella's thoughts are a rapid jumble, impossible to comb through or pay attention to. Her ears strain, and her eyes flit about. Her fur bristles. Her tongue runs across her teeth, again and again. She is dimly aware that she is still moving forward. Her head keeps dipping meekly, and then forcing itself straight again. She pivots... before the ramp? At the bar? She says something to the servitor there.

She has no idea what. It could be anything. She's asking for a drink, probably. She gets one. The glass feels brittle between her fingers. The liquid is redder than blood, and smells like syrup swimming in wine: overly aggressive fruitiness trying to smother the acrid sting of alcohol like very thick perfume. She is delaying here. Buying time.

Looking for the shape of the board.

[Look Closely: 4. "What is going on here? What do my senses tell me?"]

“Ha ha ha, you know, why don’t we sort out the particulars later?” Vasilia twirled her pistol away from her crewmate’s head and tucked it casually in her jacket, where it would no longer be pointed directly at her crewmate’s head. Had she mentioned how strange it would be to shoot her crewmate in the head? She’d thought she wouldn’t have had to bring up the topic, but neither had she thought she’d have to deal with an entire Grand Armada when she woke up this morning, so perhaps it was just a day for unpleasant surprises. The skittering in the vents sure supported that theory.

“Everyone!” She turned on a dime and addressed her rag-tag crew. “We have a Princess to catch, and the only advantage to our name is that no one expects us to move, much less succeed. I want all of you on engines and steering. Alexa, show them the way. Dolce ought to meet you there.”

****************************************************

It was not the harmless creaking of an old ship. That was for certain.

It was difficult to say, but if Dolce had to guess, the banging was metal on metal; many small limbs against something large, probably the vents or one of the piping systems. On average, interval of less than a half-second...no, a third of a second between them. The echoes were changing tone, but not swiftly, so probably something with a great many small limbs instead of a few small limbs moving fast. The rumblings and - oh! And screeching. Screeching too. The rumbling and screeching were independent of the other noises, independent of its movement.

Like he said, it was difficult to say. Too many bad things it could be.

Do you know what he could say? They’d be moving soon. Vasilia would need him and the rest of the crew to man the ship’s systems. If they could man the ship’s systems, she could chase after the Princess. And if she could chase after the Princess, then they would get the Princess back. So...so no matter what sort of noises were coming from the ceiling, the floor, and several of the walls, the best thing to do was to stay right here, at his post, and listen very hard for the orders he knew were coming.

Yes. Nothing he could do at all but wait.

Wait...and listen.

Redana!

The Imperial Plovers are the same machines as yours. The same speed, the same acceleration, the same limits - but they are more. It should just be a matter of math.

But you're testing your limits and they aren't.

You see the mines glitter ahead, ruby tri-points blinking. They're timed to wait for thirty seconds before they arm to give their users time to get to a minimum safe distance. Thirty seconds of safety before the jaws of the trap snap shut. You only need twenty. You scorch between the deadly balls of explosives before they arm, between the clumsy grabs of two minelayer plovers, and on, and on, and on, the mere fact of your escape no reason at all to slow your ascent.

And then you're besides the Eater of Worlds.

The husks of the Imperial ships before were vast; this is incomprehensible. It fills your view like a planet, plated in bone and rock; mountains and peaks and valleys carved into its stone hide. Prismatic veins of gemstones erupt on the surface, crystal forests of Poseidon's multitude of colours, storming and reacting to the gathering storm. Oceans of sapphire blood-ice hang depressurized like rainstorms in stop motion. Ahead that distant beak could break a continent with a bite. It is so vast it feels like you are hardly moving in relation to it, though you have not cut your speed at all.

[Temporary solution: The debris field is now being mined. This will make future small craft operations in this area hazardous.]

Vasilia and Alexa!

"Uh, yes ma'am," said Ganius to the order, giving a brief salute and leading his squad away. Alexa, as you walk alongside him you can hear him muttering about "Not being an engine dog, she's just the same as the others". That's going to be a problem - this is a hoplite, and even the humble ones are proud enough to consider manual labour beneath them. It's what caused him to defect in the first place and you can sense the morale in this unit is very close to zero - and managing the hearts of soldiers is as vital an aspect of war as any.

You've got some time to survey and assess, Vasilia. You see that the Veterosk is heading directly for the Eater of Worlds. You're completely in its stern, and have to darken the central viewport to shield your eyes from the brightness of its engine aftershock that faces directly towards you. You absolutely have the element of surprise.

What's the plan?

Dolce!

{EXPLAIN}

The blasting, blaring static-fulled artificial voice of Iskarot from immediately behind you knocks you off your feet.

A monster in robes the colour of hazard stripes towers over you. Its eyes glow a malevolent red and glittering lights fill it like a tiny galaxy. It brandishes a fistful of brightly coloured severed cables, still sparking, limp like a severed limb.

"The status of this warship is DEPLORABLE," shouted the Hermetician, throwing the bundle into your arms. It steps right over your prone body and begins applying maniacal limbs to the console you were looking at. In a much softer, more gentle voice, he intoned "Blessed be the holy engine, for your mighty wings will bear us to the Golden Lord - HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN THIS CORROSION? Has this ship been UNDERWATER? Nothing here is sterile, there are teeth marks on the multiphase interchange, the balistrades are rusted shut - WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!?!"

He shifts right past you again, not even looking at you, ripping a huge console off the wall and unscrewing multiple burned-out and damp bulbs and tossing them irritably on the floor where they shatter one after another.

Bella!

This place isn't clean.

The smells of the cleaning chemicals, too fine for human senses, are obvious to you, as sharp and unpleasant as orange on ulcers. It's overpoweringly thick, like an open bottle of the stuff has been spilled, but there's no sign of it. As unpleasant as it is, the smell of cleanliness should at least should be comforting - but it's not. Something is wrong. There's something it's not entirely covering, and the thought of having missed a spot raises a horrible tension.

The wine is the same. It's so full, so rich, it passes beyond your ability to comprehend - but it too doesn't quite cover something. This is royal wine - the bar servitor gave you royal wine, not the lower class stuff that would fit a servitor's station. The kind of stuff that sent your eyelashes fluttering when the Empress poured herself a glass from across the room, the kind of stuff that parallels the molten sunlight honey-cheese flavour of divine ambrosia. It's so smooth and crisp even the roughness of your tongue feels smooth and golden, glowing, drifting light saturates your body. It's divine. You almost can't move.

That smell. It's not dirt. It's something else, something familiar, something...

It's not almost. You actually can't move.

The bartender leans across the table on her elbows, blinking sideways to reveal her slitted reptilian eyes, incongruous against the soft and squirrelly face.

"Hey, Bella!" said Mynx, waving cheerfully, bubbly smile filling every part of her face. "How are you doing?"

Mynx. The shapeshifter. Princess Redana's body double and your ally and rival in the Imperial Household, you've known her almost as long as you've known the Princess. She's spent so long imitating Princess Redana that she's almost her mirror in personality - bright and courageous and heroic - but there's always a little edge of mischievous darkness and cruelty that comes with knowing how the world actually is underneath it all. That's the smell you couldn't quite place - she isn't able to perfectly conceal her scent from you without burying it under other things.

And she's sedated you. You can still move, but you're tired and weak, and you're not sure you could stand successfully. Just like Redana - you presume the ropes and the closet are going to be next...

"Hey, don't worry!" said Mynx, and you can't tell if she's being genuine or condescending. You can never tell with her. "I've got this. Redana is safe with me, you'll see!"

Just like Redana to go off ahead. Just like Mynx to try to steal her from you. Aphrodite, behind your back, gives a satisfied little smile.

"Hey, Redana! What are you reading?"

Redana looks up into the soft glare of the Solar-Reminiscent Lamps, squinting in a way that some might call adorable, or at the very least dorky, at the silhouette of Bella. "Sullust's Histories," she says, and for once there's excitement in her voice. "I finally got to the part where he summarizes the battle over Yugurten VII, and describes the arrival of the Eater of Worlds. Listen to this!"

Bella folds herself up, brushing off her gardening apron (which has all the little pink paw prints running around the hem), and rests her head on Redana's shoulder. "I'm listening," she says, tucking her legs in underneath her skirt as a warm breeze runs around the garden. It's not open to the outside world-- almost nothing is, here-- and so the sky is false, and the air currents are false, but the grass is real. The cherry sapling with its dainty white-pink leaves is real, dusting the ground around them. The walls pretend to be hedges, and the ceiling pretends to be an open sky, and even though it's all fake, if Redana closes her eyes, she can almost imagine that it's not, that it's real, that Bella's here and they're alone in all the world, and the butterflies aren't shipped in specially just for them, but that a whole world lies open for them to explore. She can almost pretend she's free.

"The Eater of Worlds, being the last resort of Olympus upon those planets they deemed unworthy of continuation, reared by the hand of Poseidon Ptortheion in the raging vortices of the Maw of Terror, grew to such size that it could fulfill its purpose without delay or frustration by the hand of mortal man; its beak, made such that it could peel continents away from the firmament as a man might skin an orange with his thumb and forefinger, would brook no obstacle save for the Aegis of Blessed Athena, with which she warded it from devouring Plutonia, and indeed the strength of its jaw would crack the crust, just as a hungry maiden cracks a pie's crust with her little finger."

Bella laughs. "You made that part up!"

"Okay, maybe I did," Redana says, setting the book down on a protruding root. "His sentences just don't stop! I keep getting lost in them!"

"Well," Bella says, resting the back of her hand against Redana's thigh, "maybe you could tell me more, instead of him? Will the Eater of Worlds come here?" Her tail bushes up, and she presses closer. "Please tell me you'll save me, my lady!"

"Of cour--" Redana turns her head, and Bella's is right. there. Those soft, arresting eyes... Redana doesn't get why poets keep talking about cows' eyes. Cows have solid black fear orbs, according to her Children's Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Cosmos. Bella has soft, pretty eyes, and her breath is washing against Redana's lips, and, and she's so warm, and... and it clicks.

So she grabs Bella and shoves her down onto the grass, shoves an arm down on her windpipe. Those eyes widen, and then involuntarily blink, and there it is, there it IS. "Nice try, Mynx," Redana pants, letting off a little of that pressure onto her bodyguard's throat, just to be polite. She can make redundant windpipes, after all. "But Bella's not as touchy-feely as that. She always gets fidgety when she's that close to people."

"Isn't she?" She breaks into a wide and toothsome grin. "I guess I'll have to study her more closely. I thought for sure I had her just right..."

"MYNX! Where ARE you?!" That smile just gets wider and wider as Bella storms into the garden, trailing ropes, a very heavily chewed kerchief dangling over her collar. When Bella sees them, she stops dead in her tracks and starts fumbling with her rumpled skirt and apron, obviously embarrassed that she didn't escape in time to stop Mynx from getting to her charge. What if this was a real assassination attempt, after all? That's why she's blushing furiously and bobbing in a curtsey. "Oh, hello, my Redana, my lady, good afternoon, I do hope this childish prankster didn't inconvenience you. They were... helping... me with training, and, um, gosh, I can handle them from here, please don't let this distract you any more from your studies, what were you reading? Can you tell me about it? After I go and have a talk with Mynx, of course..."

***

"Without delay or frustration by the hand of mortal man..."

The words are dredged up from somewhere deep inside her as the Eater of Worlds fills her viewscreen. They sound... resonant. The kind of words that naturally would stick with her. But they make sense. How are you supposed to stop something this big? The head on its own would dwarf a space habitat! This close, even the battleship thrust between its eyes seems almost pathetic, a dagger that felled a giant, and nothing should make one of those dreadnoughts seem small, given that even the Plousios might as well be a Plover in comparison, and a Plover like hers just a gnat on its side...

She lets the controls go slack, trusting in her speed and her head start, and slumps back in the seat. It keeps getting bigger and bigger! And it's doing so with all the deliberate slowness of a painter! If she hadn't been told to go inside, it would be so tempting to go and get thoroughly lost in those rainbow forests, vast biomes of stone and light and void, and let the dazzling radiance and heat confound all those who pursue her. There are much worse hiding places in this galaxy.

But no, it has to be inside. She has to slip between those slabs of bone, each one the length of an entire elevator, and find some safe place to land upon its frozen tongue, or else continue down its length (for who knows how long?) and avoid... "Oh, will it have those things in its throat?" Redana grimaces. Sea turtles were made to hunt creatures in the water, slippery and desperate to escape, and so their mouths, she remembers... "Were they all the spines, or the hooks?" Either way, it's a chilling thought.

She turns that nervous energy into stretching her legs, letting the tremble run all the way down to her toes, and lets the Eater invite her closer, its clouded eyes each the size of oceans blind to her approach, and all the while the droplets of blood hammer against her Plover like rain on the branches of the little cherry-sapling in her garden...

She's standing on kitten's legs. It could have been instant or it could have taken twenty minutes, she doesn't know, but someone threw a switch inside her and now her knees are wobbling with the strain of keeping her heavy body upright. Useless kitten's legs, too small and weak for the job. She can't stay standing anymore. She can feel her toes curling inside her boots, and with just that little motion the muscles that are supposed to be the proudest piece of her lineage melt into putty and she slips lower. Lower. Lower.

"Nngh, Mynx! You useless, guh, bastard! Faker! Th-this isn't a game... nnff! Anymore!"

Her claws drag across the surface of the bar, cutting deep grooves until they finally find enough purchase for her to drag herself back close enough to standing that she can look Mynx in her dumb lizard eyes. Her breathing feels ragged and labored. Her tail has gone limp, and her ears droop comically on top of her head, but her eyes are as sharp and full of fury as they have been since she left for space. Her arms may be straining just with the effort of keeping herself upright, but it makes her feel like a fighter just the same. That's enough to keep her tongue sharp through the honey-like wine.

"Don't you even think of leaving me behind! The Princess is my prey! I'm not, hhhhhff, gonna let you steal my glory! You'll never get your cushy little job back without me!"

Her face twists into a grim smile. There it is! Faker. Usurper! Always trying to take her spot, always worming her way into the Princess' good graces, trying to sit herself ahead of Bella, but where's that gotten her, huh? Look who didn't get taken, either! All those smug smiles, all that lying, and she got left behind just the same as everybody else!

Where did she... disappear to? Why wasn't she there when Bella was being punished? Why hadn't she lifted a finger to help her survive the Games? They were abandoned together! And yet! And yet!!

Bella slams her fist down loud enough to make every person in the area jump off their feet. Jealousy, anger, courage... whatever it's called, it surges inside her hotter and stronger than Mynx's poison. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to surge to full height. Just long enough to lunge and seize the bartender's vest the traitor was wearing for a disguise. She slumps again, but now she's dragged Mynx down to her level. Bella's breath is hot and thick with the scent of her own blood as it washes over Mynx's face.

"I'm getting on that ship. I'm going to see her. Odoacer couldn't stop me. You won't stop me. And then I'm doing my job. So if you want back into the Empress' good graces you'd better start making yourself useful real fast or I'll..."

Her nostrils flare involuntarily. And then? A tear wells up inside her beautiful golden eye and rolls softly down her cheek. She snarls. Adrenaline. Effect of the poison, nothing more.

Vasilia worked the crank on the viewport’s star shield. Dim panels of crystalized shadow lowered with each turn, slowly cutting the light from the bridge. It was dull, drab drudgery so easy that she couldn’t remotely work up a sweat, with a device so carefully worked that it was impossible to go any faster than ‘painfully slow.’

Dolce called it good thinking work, and she hated how often it helped.

When she could survey the scene without getting blinded, her mind set to work while her hand ran on autopilot. This was quite the mess, wasn’t it? Redana’s stunt hadn’t bought them time so much as it had exchanged one impossible problem for another. Now instead of fighting outnumbered 150-to-1, they had to outmaneuver a fully-staffed warship, get to Redana first, and then fight outnumbered 150-to-1. Oh, and find a way to shatter the Lupincas while they were at it. To be frank, she hadn’t even gotten as to escaping. Perhaps if they made it that far, the Armada would take it as an omen and leave.

No, no, not good enough. That simply wouldn’t do. Not the escaping bit, that was a separate bit of unacceptable, but the situation. It truly was impossible. There was nothing she or any of them could do.

So. If that fight was unwinnable, which one could they win?

More importantly, what was winning, really? The Lupincas must break, that was for certain, or else Poseidon would never permit them to leave. They had to reach Redana, yes, but more importantly, if they could prevent Jas’o from reaching her, that was just as good. Better, even. If they crippled his ability to mount a coordinated chase, then they also crippled his ability to bring his forces to bear on them. They could scoop Redana back up and be gone with ease. If that was all they were after, then…

A devilish smile grew on her lips.

Then do we really need to outmaneuver him?

“Everyone: I want maximum power to the engines, as fast as you can give it to me.” She commanded through the pipes. “Stand by on steering. Our adjustments will be slight, and our heading vital.”

She eyeballed the line between their prow and Jas’o’s burning engines.

“We’re only going to get one shot at this, and we need to make it count.”

****************************************************

Waiting.

Waiting was...very good. Helpful for all sorts of things.

Waiting let him come to terms with the fact that not only had he not been gobbled up by an unspeakable vent monstrosity, he was (probably) not about to be gobbled up by an unspeakable vent monstrosity. Waiting told him that he ought not to call the creature tearing through their ship an unspeakable vent monstrosity, though it didn’t tell him what he ought to call them instead. (It was a Hermetician, yes? There were a few of those with the Privateers.) Waiting showed him it was actually tearing the ship apart so that it could put it back together again a little better. Waiting gave his ears blessed time to stop ringing, which was very nice for listening for Vasilia’s signal.

Waiting very often did not let him down, and this time was no different.

He gingerly lifted himself upright, a tangle of cables tumbling down his front. “It was Hades’ ship before he lent it to us. It would have been rude to ask.” Idly, he started sorting out the piles of scrap wire and parts they were casting aside, even catching a few bulbs before they shattered. Maybe it would help. It’d be easier to clean later, too. “Could I ask you to speak quieter, please? I can hear you well, and I’m listening for - oh!”

He perked up, listening to his Vasilia’s commands.

“Excuse me, I must help get the engines running. If you could focus your work there, I would be glad to lend a hand.”

[Using Heroes of the People to automatically Speak Softly:
-What can they tell us about getting our ship moving?
-What do they want, and how could we help them get it?
-What should I be wary of when dealing with them?]

"Please."

It's a quiet word, and one so out of place that Galnius can't help but cut off midmurmur in surprise to look at the statue. The murderstatue wants to talk? It can talk quietly?

Alexa's step never wavers as she talks, but she's also pointedly not looking at anything besides the path towards the sepulchral engine rooms. No, that's not quite right, Galnius realizes. She's not looking forwards, but back: back in time, back to other times and other faces.

"Tell me about them, Galnius. I know well the press of a shield wall. The press of brothers and sisters, side by side, shields firm to defend. When one falls, the hole must be filled at once, lest the phalanx fall and all be lost. But the wall is never the same, is it?"

It's not Jrav at your side. Not Jrav, third son of a petty noble. Not Jrav, who left his home to seek the inheritance he'll not receive from his family. Not Jrav, who hides his sketchbook from the rest of the platoon. Not Jrav, who delights in telling the worst jokes purely for the groans.

There's a new man at your side. The phalanx stands tall and strong. But it's not Jrav, and it's not the same.

"I do not relish killing," she confesses with the solemn air of one admitting high treason to the king's face, and it takes all she has not to check to see whether Athena is standing behind her, listening. "It is all that I know. But if I must, then allow me to mourn. Please, Galnius. Tell me of them, that I may mourn with you."

[10 on Speak Softly.
-What should I be wary of when dealing with them?
-What would they have us do next?
-What can they tell us about themselves?]