Redana pulls Epistia close, one arm tight around the Servitor’s back, careful not to brush against the Thunderbolt. And for a moment, two exhausted princesses hold each other, covered in blood and spit and sweat, as the palace collapses around them.

“I wasn’t going to leave you behind,” she says, a feverish desperation in her voice. She made a promise. And she’s not, she can come back for her friends. For those who depend on her. For those who need her to be strong.

She looks up as the walls collapse, the storm tearing at her hair and ruined outfit, and looks desperately for... there. There she is, leaping and darting about effortlessly. (A chunk of masonry the size of a Ceronian bears down on Redana and Epistia, and Ares bats it carelessly into a shuttle, which explodes in midair, all hands lost.) “Bella!” She screams, and reaches, but her leg doesn’t move under her and Epistia is still sagging against her and all she can do is reach out, uselessly, as her lost friend bounds away.

“We have to go after her,” Redana says, brokenly. “We have to save her. I can’t leave her behind again...”

You don’t get to keep things you don’t value.

She had a gun. She had the distance. Her opponent was emotionally unstable and easily needled.

And Vasilia was losing.

The common spectator might not even notice it. She fired her pistol, Bella took her swings, neither of them landed the blows they needed. Surely a stalemate, at least? But no, look again. Look again, boorish public. See how Bella keeps advancing, and she can only sidestep. See how her shots always land wide, denying space rather than seeking victory. See her work the trigger as fast as it will fire, faster than it ought to fire. It won’t hold. She won’t hold. If the rabid cur was in any more control of herself, if she possessed the ounce of sense required not to telegraph her every move…

Unbelievable. That such raw physical ability should be given to such a stupid, hateful creature.

[Rolling to Overcome: 5 + 2 + 1 = 8, spending 1 Ammo to upgrade to 10+]

And then: Quiet. Not from Bella, she kept making a fool of herself, but the field. A pause. A moment to catch her breath, thanks to Alexa finally making her move. She stood by, pistol hemorrhaging toxic smoke, and waited.

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

“No.”

And Captain Vasilia stepped between Redana and the retreating Bella, not once turning her back to the foe. “She’s chosen to leave, and we’re leaving too. All hands; form up around Redana, and make for the shuttle. Dolce will meet us along the way. Move!”

This is the realm of Ares and you are not welcome here.

*

In the Plousios above, Hermetician Iskarot mans the cannons. Tripod legs clatter up and down the deck as he hauls shells to the archaic cannons, placing them in batches into the autoloader, jamming the firing mechanism to full, and letting Ares put the shells where he wills. The ship is drifting out of control towards the Anemoi.

It is the responsibility of the enemy captain to evade - or of Lord Ares to guide the coming wreck to the house of Hades.

*

The toxic clouds drift down from the starships above, the after-effects of weapons that should never be fired in atmosphere. Miasma for blinding the eyes of a fleet has a wretched effect on unprepared organic life. Lungs strain to filter the chemicals, rifling through the gaseous sludge for fragments of oxygen. Some slam doors shut and seal themselves inside, some dive beneath the waves and frantically mutate gills, some bury themselves beneath rubble and enter a state of suspended animation, slowing their heartbeats and circulation to zero. And amidst these thickening storm clouds flashes massive lightning-strikes of shipborne ELF weaponry, illuminating the massive shapes of the starships like angry gods. Between the walls that burn a crimson agony with the fury of the Armada and the chemical abomination of solid projectile weaponry, the interior of the Eater of Worlds has become at last what it was originally suspected of being: a vision of Tartarus.

Only two cats are mad enough to fly shuttles through this storm, blind but for when a lightning bolt the width of one's entire shuttle burns through the smoke.

*

Merely being aboard a shuttle didn't strike Princess Epistia as a reason to put down Princess Redana. The Imperial Princess was hoisted over the Ceronian Princess' good shoulder as though she weighed nothing. When she wasn't put down during the confused crash-landing on the Plousios' hangar deck, or after stepping out onto the unfamiliar starship, it had started to sink in that maybe to Epistia, Redana did weigh nothing. After all, Redana had plenty of time and proximity to examine those steel-cable muscles - and plenty of time and experimentation to confirm there was no way to struggle free or coherently get a sentence out while being held upside down, speaking into someone's back, while they were maintaining a powerful sprint.

A foreign ship was a maze, but Epistia was a Ceronian, and boarding starships was wired into their genetics. She was drawn towards the bridge as irresistibly as a wolf hunting a stag and raced ahead of Alexa and Vasilia. She crashed in through the door with a scythe in one hand and Redana in the other.

Only once she had processed the fact that it was empty was she able to find the coherency to awkwardly put Redana down.

*

The Eater of Worlds was beset, but its beak was thick enough to endure the molten furnace of a planet's core. It was scorched and burned by the Armada but they would need more time than they had to pierce it - amidst the storm of Poseidon crashing Imperial ships together, and the whispers of mutiny and treason, the attack could not be sustained. The Admiral was forced to watch as the Leviathan's corpse hurled away into the void, the cold gears of her mind already bent to the purpose of catching up with it.

*

The Anemoi was not a ghost ship like the Plousios. It was filled with a full compliment of servitors who did not yet know they needed to get out of the way of the Praetor who ruled them. With her soaked, filthy dress, the owl-like guards did not even recognize her or permit her access to the bridge where Captain Lorventi gave command. Crucial seconds, minutes wasted at the tip of disrespectful avine speartips. Crucial minutes while Lorventi gave the order to evade, moving the Anemoi out of the path of the onrushing Plousios. By the time she finally made it onto the bridge it would be just in time to see Redana's ship accelerating out towards the open void, once again sailing into that rainbow storm.

It would be a rough voyage ahead.

The hallway screams like a mute. She raises one hand halfheartedly, almost lazily, and drags her claw tips across the length of the hall as she walks. Her reward is nothing but a soft susurrus of tearing polymers, and thin lines of jagged gouges rippling up and down like waves as her steps carry her unevenly, unsteadily, but ever forward. The blackened material glides like water underneath her fingertips. It defeats her even so. She draws a deep and shuddering breath, and even this is swallowed up into the blackness of the sleek, dark corridor.

This is no place for the singing of bells. She tears her sleeves from her arms as she walks; where they fall marks the end of her attack on the wall. No pleasure, no comfort to be had in the act. Her feet fall against the floor like snowflakes on a bed of wet leaves. She is quiet when she wants to be, but here she is a shadow. Mist. Nothing. Every step presses down into the soft and giving material until it springs back up with the lifting of her knee and bounces her forwards. Her damp, bedraggled skirts cling forlornly to her legs, the unheard drip drip drip from the lace linings and her hair tips even now washing little puddles of dejection in a line behind her.

Ahead of her, the soft and tremulous flicker of candlelight. Her eyes swallow the offering, two pale golden orbs, sweeping through the darkness. The servant who comes across her flinches, as if shrinking into a hunched up ball would save her from the merciless knives and poisons and wires that lie hidden everywhere aboard the Anemoi. Stupid, worthless dog, those aren't even what you should be worrying about. Bella snaps her fingers. The scrawny young servant snaps to attention.

"Clean this. All of it. Now."

"I... um, o-oh! A-a-a-at once, Praetor!"

She dips into a deep bow that manages to be at once serene and servile even as Bella kicks off her soaking, broken boots right in front of her. It is enough to spare her any deeper punishment. A child of the Kennels knows all sorts of ways to make a Bad Girl beg forgiveness, after all. She sniffs, and walks on without further comment, the sounds of scrubbing and sniveling soon swallowed up by the walls once more.

The door slides open with barely a touch, and even less sound. Activated by the presence of her body heat, lines of perfect crystals hum and glow until the room is filled with pale yellow light. Dim enough to be slept under. Perfect for reading, if one were so inclined. Bella shivers. Her fur is a matted mess. Her tail is bony and pathetic. There is no one here to see her. No one to hear her. Her arms bend gracefully and with the practiced hand of a servitor charged with years of tending to the attire of the most important person in the galaxy slide her bottoms down her legs for her to step out of cleanly. Her fingers lift automatically to carefully unbutton her shirts, skipping over the spaces where fate or some cruel god has stolen one or two from her. They join her other clothes with a wet slap.

Her fingers glide across the thick collar around her neck, now the only piece of clothing on her body. Her creamy, smooth skin glistens in the cool air of her room, marred by little goosebumps that nonetheless do nothing to bring her to the chest of drawers where fresh clothes lie waiting. The room bears witness to her perfection. The exacting lines at her shoulders and her thighs where her fur ends and the flawless, almost human flesh begins. The chemicals they used to burn away the rest of her warm white fur didn't even leave lasting scars. Of course not. They wouldn't have dared to make a mistake with a child of pedigree like hers. Even the deep marks where they tore out her whiskers were polished away until nothing remained but beauty. But Bella.

Her fingers softly trace each burnished metal link on her leash in turn, finding comfort in the slick smoothness of the metal and the regularity of each shape. All of it purpose built. All of it perfect. All of it...

She pricks a finger against the jagged edge where Jas'o broke her unblemished image in front of the Princess. She grinds her fingers against it harder, seeking blood. The tiniest drip draws a sigh from her lips, that forces her head over to the porthole looking out across the terrible reaches of the polychromatic hell that is Space. Where she's waiting, again. Where she slipped away to, again. Where she's--

"Re... dana..." the whisper is entirely too loud inside her ears. Lush and filled with longing, for a safe life where things made sense and the girl who opened the Box still smiled at her. For home. Nothing more than that.

Bella tears herself away from the nightmare she's now swimming in, and her half-lidded eyes find her feet. She squeezes them shut, but the pictures won't go away. The smells are stuck on her. She walks slowly to her dresser and opens up the top drawer, the one where not a shred of clothing can be found.

She takes the decanter in her hand. Such a small thing, but unique in all the world. The stopper is a glimmering red rose, each petal carved individually by the hand of some master craftsman to trap the precious treasure inside. A birthday gift, fit for a princess. One she hadn't had time to bring with her when she was scrambling to bring ruin to the only home she'd ever known. Bella pulls the stopper free with a trembling hand, and stares longingly at the clear liquid inside.

She draws out several drops, only a precious few, and dabs them with surgical precision on her pillow, and at the corners of her bedsheets. She closes the bottle, and waits. One, two. Three. She closes her eyes, and breathes deep.

There it is. Nothing to ruin it this time. Nothing to spoil the feeling. The smell of the garden that swims in Redana's perfume. The butterflies and giggly gossip and sunshine naps that nobody but the Princess of Tellus has ever worn. Will ever wear. Bella's breathing slows. She carefully puts the decanter away, locking the drawer when she closes it and then climbing smoothly on top of the bed.

Her eyes drift shut. She floats inside a bubble called home. She gives one final shiver, and curls herself up tightly. There, with the lights still twinkling in their softness, without even climbing under the covers, she drifts off under the watchful gaze of the Oneiroi.

Behind. Behind. Always behind.

The palace crumbled in fire and smoke. Every rumble of the earth signaled another volley from Ares of stone, furniture, and ash. Dolce had to notice the threats before they could crush him. He had to keep hold of the Undersecretary, and guide him on the safe paths. He had to hold fast the direction in his mind, always. That way was forward. Never lose it. Keep moving. And when the two of them burst from the palace wreckage, they were the last aboard the shuttle.

Through the ship. Running after the Princess. No, not running. Walking fast, fast as he could, but the Undersecretary needed directions, and Galnius would not go to any of the systems where they’d be needed, and he had to ask so many times in so many ways before they finally relented. Poorly done. Too slow, by a long shot. He was last to the bridge.

Vasilia had already taken the helm. He had to walk - shame-faced and stained with soot - before Alexa, before Redana and the Ceronian to take his place. Two paces behind. Just two paces behind. A step, and he could touch her. Put his hand upon her back, trace the taut muscles, feel the knots he knew must be growing. Take her hand, do not let it go, not for a moment. A step more, and he’d be at her side. Nestled close, her arm about his shoulders. Her Chef Mate. Her Dolce. Here to soothe the hurt, at last. Here to listen. Here to hold and be held amid the wonders of the void, just the two of them…

“Everyone: All ahead full. Top speed, before they can spot us. Except for you, Redana. Get yourself patched up.”

Two paces behind. Always, two paces behind.

Dolce turned, and...and the exertion of the day must have finally caught up with him, hadn’t it? The first step, it was so, so heavy. And the second. And the third. When he stopped beside the Princess, he feared he might not be able to move again. “Please, this way; let me show to you to the infirmary.” His bow to the Ceronian was perfect. His face, the picture of cordial hospitality. Miracle of miracles, he could keep walking. He had to keep walking.

The work was not done yet.

Behind. Behind. Always behind.

“Nnngh...”

Feeling is coming back. The only problem is that it is the sort of feeling of unfolding your leg from underneath you and having the blood rush back in. Redana has always imagined tiny little needles under her skin, throbbing as they stick in place, until her blood melts the pain away. But that feeling isn’t going away this time, so all she can do is grit her teeth and try not to squirm. It’s agonizingly ticklish.

The infirmary is a small circle of lantern-light. Beyond it stretches rows on rows of folded cots, ready to accommodate dozens of injured marines and sailors, unused in the darkness. There are small, hard pillows tucked under her back and piled beneath her leg. She is under firm orders from Dolce to not get out of bed, not to walk on it, and to let her divine blessings counteract the curse long enough for it to heal normally.

(The curse. Those weapons were meant to leave unhealing wounds. Even her nanites can only deny that power, not unmake it completely.)

She’s alone, now. Epistia is sleeping on the other side of the door, scythe resting on her lap, still unsmiling. Nothing is entering the infirmary without her say-so. And that’s sweet, but the vast dark of the rusting, moldering room is starting to... ugh. It’s a room. Another room she’s not allowed to leave. And there’s nothing to do.

Her Auspex peels back walls, showing her: a Magus squeezing through vents (wow, that’s what’s under the robes?) and a statue on patrol, ship-rats scuttling and gnawing on plating, and far far beyond, the raging heart of a star that fuels the Plousios. She stares without a choice, without seeing.

***

Hush-a-bye, princess, I’ll give you a moon
all strung with pearls
a bouquet of worlds
and morning will be here soon

Her face aches. The numbing injections are wearing off and her socket itches. The thing keeps sending numbers and measurements and calculations straight to her brain and it’s too much, it’s a muddled mess shouted at her in a foreign language of mathematics and statistics, and she doesn’t want to know the atomic weight of her palace walls or the estimated wealth per capita of the planet or the dread shapes of the gods moving through all things.

Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her arms are wrapped around them and she’s shaking. It’s so bad. And it’s got to get worse before it gets better, that’s what they told her, the priests and doctors and surgeons. It’s got to get worse before it gets better.

Hush, little princess, your Bella is here
all through the night
til morning light
shows you there’s nothing to fear

She can feel the breath moving through Bella. One ear is smooshed against her lacy apron, but her song is still clear as the water in the little garden stream. Her voice is so pretty. It’s the prettiest thing in the whole wide world.

Her fingers are so soft. They stroke gently over one cheek, staying well away from that throbbing socket, wiping away the tears that seep out from around that glittering sapphire. She’s here. She’s here and she’s never getting taken away. Please. Please, Mommy. You can take away her toys and her privileges and her eye but please don’t take her Bella away.

Sleep, o my princess, and please do not cry
one day you will see
a silly kitten like me
will always wipe the tears from your eyes.

***

Redana Claudius closes her eyes and shakes. It’s completely silent in the dark, cavernous infirmary as Bella breaks her promise.

There are benefits to having a skeleton crew aboard a ship the size of a city. It means that when the metaphorical sergeant comes asking where to find that rat fink bastard who peed in his metaphorical coffee, there's nobody to sell you out. Nobody saying, "oh, she went that way," nobody pointing out the massive crater footsteps, nobody to point to the white gleam of marble in the distance. In a ship this size with a crew this small, it's possible for her to disappear.

Which is good, because disappearing is on Alexa's mind.

What was she thinking? You never question the orders you're given. That's drilled into every footman's head in basic. You do it, even if it means that you or others die. You certainly never question them in public, in front of subordinates, or shout them down, or assist in their capture. You follow orders, to the letter, the instant they're given. You desert, you don't fight when you're told or--gods preserve you--you fight for the other side, and your death will be slow, agonizing, and public, so that nobody else gets it into their head that what you did was okay.

Start with the engine room, she decides. It's got to be a mess after having Ares run rampant through it, and whatever the Hermetician did to manage to fly the ship through a storm. Plenty of things to set right, which is just the thing. Plenty of heavy things to lift, ways to wear herself out, make her body so tired with the effort that her brain doesn't have enough time to think about it.

Alexa pauses halfway through taking her armor off. She shouldn't get it dirty, she knows. The creation of the Warsage must be perfect in every situation, in every presentation. Perfect means not covered in soot and grime and dust. Perfect means glorious, gleaming, possibly with a sheen of whichever fool dared oppose Molech. Perfect means she should lay it aside, neatly folded, perform her labors as needed, and then take them up again.

And yet, the thought of taking off even a shred of armor at this point is unthinkable. It's not selfish, she tells herself. She hasn't been repaired fully. She's created in the very image of Athena herself. Hiding any of that is itself shameful, but if it's going to be presented, it should be presented in the best way possible.

Yeah, that's definitely it.

Why isn't Redana doing it? It's not like Alexa can actually hide, she knows. This wandering the ship, desperately hoping not to run across anyone, is pointless. (Which doesn't mean that she didn't also choose the engine room in the probably vain hope that it'd be noisy enough to conceal the noises of stone on metal.) Between the Auspex and the command seal, it should be a simple affair to summon her, order her to pulverize herself, and have done.

And yet, she's able to spend at least an hour simply working herself into a fervor of pounding metal, balancing the massive flow regulators, setting the room right, listening for orders from the bridge until even the sweeping and dusting is done.

Is that it? Is that what she's doing, is letting her stew? Redana knows what she's done, Alexa knows what she's done, they both know what has to happen, and part of the punishment is making her wait for the judgement? Molech's done that in the past, but Alexa genuinely didn't think Redana had that kind of nasty cleverness to her.

(She bites back the thought that Redana doesn't have cleverness to her, nasty or not.)

Although... The thought stews in her mind as she makes her way to the small temple on the starboard side of the ship. The worst has already happened, hasn't it? She's already dead. The Gods alone can save her at this point. Does it really matter whether she's unkind to Redana in her own thoughts? Redana's been plenty unkind to her outside her head, after all.

Gently, Alexa brushes the dust off the statues to the gods. Each alter requires its dedication, its procedures, its prayers and blessings and sanctifications.

But she's also been... Well, let's not beat about the bush. Yes, she kidnapped her. And yes, she's got the command seal. But she at least acts like Alexa's a person, which is more than can be said for her mother. And even with the thoughts running through her head, it never once occurred to her that Redana might strike out against Dolce or Vasilia to get back at her.

(And that lovely thought is almost enough to get her to skip a line in the ode to Poseidon, and forces a gulp and a quick recentering.)

She--she wouldn't do that, surely. Their crew is small enough. Striking against one is to ruin the other. They're safe. Yes. That's. That's good. That's very good. Her two friends aren't in any danger from Redana.

Almost automatically, her hands right a fallen statuette of Hephaestus and perform the proper apologies.

Strange how much that's enough to calm her down, even in the face of certain demise.

The gods are your guide.

This is not a metaphor. This is terrifyingly literal. No science or artifice of man can perceive the ever-shifting nature of Poseidon's void at the pace a ship at full burn moves through it.

The galaxy is ancient and even the dark spaces between stars are cluttered. Vast hulks, the amalgamated mass of thousands of wrecked starships caught and blown about by Poseidon's winds move through the stellar void like nightmare planets. Great leviathans, oceanic swarms and creatures that were long ago human fill these impossible ecosystems of the void. Ancient weapons, trading convoys, mega-architecture, or even whole planets have been hurled into the dark to drift amidst clouds of blue-green nebulae.

In ancient days, it was perceived that the universe faced the inevitable death of physics. Natural philosophers proposed the existence of entropy overwhelming a closed system, leading to the stars scattering and burning cold. Such a concern made its way all the way to the Imperial throne where even the leadership allowed themselves to doubt the power of Zeus. It was to be the last time.

Zeus cast forth her hand, and from the galactic core erupted forth a cataclysmic storm. The entire galaxy was blanketed in polychromatic nebulae dust, feeding and renewing the stars, blotting out the heavens, and creating a dark age that lasted five hundred years. Since then space has not been black, and only the most ancient poems refer to it as such. Space is red. Space is gold. Space is veridian and blue and white and lit with the fire of renewed suns. To look upon the void is to look upon the most magnificent vistas painted by a god who had refined sunsets to the finest art back on ancient Gaia and sought now to broaden her palette.

So, through this turbulent space, through the wreckage of humanity's many great and many fallen empires, the boundless works of the natural world, and the eruptions of new stars in the thickest parts of the great clouds of dust, ships dare to travel. They do so with books and charts indicating where the greatest known obstacles are - precious relics, charted by daring explorers and worth fortunes. But there are no scanners that can pierce the storms of dust and energy. There are no sensors that can pick out heat signatures from the flickering ignition-sparks of new stars. A captain who wishes to travel these depths, does their best to stick to a known, charted route no matter how circuitous, for every potential short cut is a potential graveyard. And even within those well known routes, new and terrible dangers can drift as a log falls across a road or a storm cuts short a sea voyage.

To survive these unpredictable dangers of the void then the only forewarning one might gain is through careful prayer and invocation of the gods. Every spacefaring society that tried to do without was rendered extinct and their debris now serves as hazards and reminders for those who do give proper sacrifice.

But even for the favoured the ride is bumpy. The invincible adamantine prows of voidships still clatter and ring with the impact of meteors. Occasionally there are mighty crashes as the arrowlike starships inadvertently ram a large meteor at relativistic speeds. The perfect miracle of materials science renders these sundering collisions merely extremely uncomfortable for those inside rather than the instant death that would be presented to the vessels of a lesser civilization enduring such an impact. In ancient days, ramming a ship at hyperspeed was a dramatic and jaw-dropping gesture. These days it is a trivial reality of astral navigation, no more meaningful than hitting a pothole in the road.

*

Redana!

Though hitting a major asteroid at lightspeed is a mere inconvenience, it is nonetheless an inconvenience. The Plousios has been forced to a halt for some emergency repairs to the prow in the wake of a particularly nasty impact. Coming to a halt in the void of space is a perilous thing, far more dangerous than performing repairs in the relative safety of a charted sun and planet's orbit. There are things alive out here, after all, and the longer you wait the greater the chance that you are rendered into permanent biomass for the ecosystem.

So these repairs are a rush job - but it's still a rush job measured in days. Iskarot the Hermetician is working alongside you and while his initial impression of you was a combination of his natural irritablism mixed with a genuine fear and respect for your Imperial title, the ice has broken a bit as you've worked side by side. And oh, hasn't it been good to spend your days in demanding physical labour? Pain of your injured leg notwithstanding, there's been more than enough work to blot out any other kinds of pain that you might otherwise focus on.

But now you're sitting together on an observation deck after a long morning's work, opening up a packed lunch cooked by Dolce, staring out at the slow-motion collision of two massive dust storms, swirling together the red and white like capillary veins of blood spreading out over a white canvas.

"So, Your Imperial Majesty..." the Hermetician said, tearing the wrapper off his sandwich. "The Plousios. She's in need of fundamental repair and overhaul, far more than this patch work we're doing right now. I suspect the ship spent a considerable amount of time underwater. Of the twenty decks, the bottom eleven are flooded - everything below the hull breach on deck twelve. The waterline is above the reactor, which is a problem because if the water reaches it the steam will flash-boil everyone working in the engine room. I currently have the situation stabilized by angling the grav-plates on decks ten-eleven towards the fore, but that means they can get jostled by direct impacts. I could try to drain it but I suspect that there is a functioning biosphere down there, and we could face a shipwide infestation of angry, hungry migratory giant enemy crabs who are sent looking for a new food source. I have developed a list of other major concerns that need attention, but I can't even begin to assess the damage, inventory our resources, or propose solutions until we've dealt with all of this sea water one way or another."

*

Vasilia and Dolce!

Music is filling the dining hall.

Galnius sits atop a table, plucking at a guitar with soft, mournful notes. The rest of their squad surrounds them, their own instruments set up - accordion, drums, violin, flute - but right now not playing. They're listening as their leader, helmet off to reveal a cascade of sandy, elfin hair that brackets their face as they sing in time with the soft music.

"I came begging to the Ferryman,
For I had no coins to spare.
I'd said spent it first on clothes and dice and whoring,
And last on drink and morphine.

I offered him my dreams in lien,
For wonder'ous memories I had aplenty
I told him first of kings and war and glory
And last of those who'd gone on ahead

I offered him my heart and love
For lovers I had too many
I sang him first of flesh and warmth and kisses
And last of children I'd never known

I came begging to the Ferryman,
For I'd gone to death a pauper.
He smiled and said that I was not the first
But he offered me a kindness at the last.

You come to me with naught but soldier's memories,
Drink from Lethe and you will at last be free."

*

Alexa!

"My gosh! Princess Redana!" said the Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt, squishing his tentacles together in delight. "Daughter of Director Nero, you say! She's not quite at the top of the list, but she's easily in the top three things the Eater of Worlds was afraid of. And she procreated! Oh my goodness, I can feel chills running right down my body. I should be taking notes! The most intelligent creature in the galaxy had a child - tell me more about her! What has she invented? What is she thinking about inventing? What kind of thing bothers her?"

The auguries are dark. They're confusing. You've been doing many of the navigation rituals for this journey - what form and method do you use to divine the will of the gods, Alexa? - and the signs of Ares and Athena are overwhelmingly dominant, but also confused and intermixed.

You know already that you're going to your home. The planet Barassidar, the Old Capital, the seat of the Warsage, bloody-handed Emperor Molech who sought to organize all of war according to one great and perfect design.

And distracting you from contemplating your impending doom is this wildly talkative octopus bureaucrat wearing a tricorn hat and flowing robe.

*

Bella!

The Anemoi is making incredible time. The Augurs say that Aphrodite has been uncharacteristically clear in his directions, and they believe that you are likely to arrive before Redana.

It doesn't feel like it. It feels like forever. Whenever the ship is starting to feel silent and still there's a tremble or grinding crash against the hull. The serfs who make their shuffling way through the dark, lightless, soundless rubbery interiors of the vessel are infuriatingly immune to these tremors and shakes - but they are satisfyingly spooked about running into you. The sight of the Praetor suddenly looming into the dim light of their candles always provokes a jump, a yelp, and a craven bow. One of life's few remaining pleasures.

The other major population aboard the ship are the terrifying owl soldiers, the Kaeri. The Kaeri are vicious, secretive and proud - you know that they consider themselves rivals to the Ceronians for the title of greatest soldiers of the Empire, and they've got a chip on their shoulder about it. Captain Lorventi in particular you remember from a feast where she clawed one of Odoacer's noble puppets half to death for insulting the Empress - a trait the Empress found commendable, but politically inconvenient. The other Kaeri call her the Redfeather, a title you gather has some context as a curse or indication of Ares' favour.

She's come calling.

"There is a human aboard this ship," she said, matte black armour moving fluidly about her body, glowing with a artificial orange light in the joints. The organic and the technological blend seamlessly in it - it's a relic, much like her foldable halberd. "Ivory Smile. Priest of Hades, defector from Odoacer. His presence," she clicked her beak, "complicates the chain of command, Praetor. Obviously my soldiers can be trusted, but I cannot be sure of the loyalty of the serfs," or you, "especially if threatened by an agent of a god. If you wish it I will dispose of him."

Noise. Heat. Chefs at their stations. Stews bubbling away. Foodstuffs for a small campaign. These, traditionally, belonged in a well-run kitchen. Soft, tasseled pillows? Not so much. Especially not soft, tasseled pillows, tucked into empty flour sacks, and secreted away in the back corners of the pantry for when they were needed. But no matter. Honorable souls belonged in Captain’s uniforms, and yet, here she was.

“The Starsong hoplites never sang songs like these.”

And here he was; perched on her lap, head resting against her chest. Didn’t he fit so well here? Wasn’t he just the right size, to wrap up in her arms and press him close? See his eyes grow heavy, half-lidded, as he drifts through warmth and memory. Here, dreamy little cloud. Precious, dear heart. Stay awhile. Be hers, for a while longer.

“Mmmm. They wouldn’t give you a moment’s peace either,” she breathed into his wool. Soft, impossibly soft curls, tickling her lips. “Never would you find a more unruly band of clowns and scoundrels. And may the gods help you if they set their collective heart on irritating you. Thick as thieves indeed…”

“I liked them too.”

Vasilia raised a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t recall asking for libel with my lunch. Insubordination is a serious charge, little chef.~”

She nipped at his ear, and thrilled to feel him jump. Thrilled that she could still catch him by surprise. It was rare; some days she could hardly hide a thing from him. A blessing, a miracle all to her own. His pulse rose beneath her claws, and she knew it was her handiwork. He tensed, so startled! So surprised! Now feel him melt anew in her arms as she traced a lingering line of kisses down his jaw. Soft nuzzles, worshipful pecks at her neck and chin, all he could reach, scattered raindrops of joy. Muted, happy bleats, so careful and quiet, all for her. For her.

She committed all of him to memory, and no draught of this world or the next would ever steal this moment away from her.

Redana lets the red and the white fill her up. On one side of her lies a white-handled cane, repurposed from a damaged strut, and on the other lies an untouched bread bowl filled with a hot curry. The winds twist the dust together, and if she unfocuses and lets it all sink in she can almost see two dragons with writhing tails biting at each other, breaking apart where they strike, wild and lawless, creatures of the storm and the far beyond.

Wait. The Hermetican is still talking. What was he saying?

“Okay,” she says, as the Auspex displays the key points of what had just been said. “I hear you. So you need me to go fight the crabs in a harness while you vent the lower decks, right?”

Just like Atlantica! She can see herself now, weightless, tethered, only needing three limbs as she vanquishes a monstrous horde! Behind her, the sky glitters with eight million ice crystals and angry crabs as the Plousios adds to the beauty of the heavens. Her mighty sword flashes and Bella clings to her—

“What are we waiting for?” Redana picks up her bread bowl and starts shoveling it into her mouth at a decidedly unwise speed.

Bella's fingers slide through her wet hair like little fish swimming down a river. Combs caught and brushed pulled; a servitor's hands were the best tools for any beautician, and Bella's hands were artisan. She reaches up to her scalp and pulls down in gentle, rippling waves of motion that send soothing tingles down her head and neck as she works. Her fingers hunt down the beginnings of knots with the tenacity of a trained assassin and pull them into smooth alignment with only the gentlest of tugs. Not so much as a single strand pulls loose.

"I am aware of the issue, Captain." she growls.

The towel draped across her shoulders is her only concession to modesty. The soft plipping of water rolling off her body onto her chair fills her ears with each fresh pull through her hair. When she tosses it all behind her, it slaps against her back with a wet thwack that calls to mind the cracking of a whip. She almost doesn't flinch. She almost doesn't cross her legs so gingerly and pull them up tighter against her body.

She almost manages to feel smooth, confident, and poised. But she is not Empress Nero. Her eyes flicker over the captain's rippling, lifelike armor. More than a match for any dress Bella's ever touched in her life. She clicks her tongue and reaches up behind her head to start tying back her hair. Someone else would use another... a servant for this, but not her. This work is too delicate to be left to a faker or a hack. Bit by bit, she weaves tiny rings of braids into the cascade of hair down her back. Delicate little chains that crisscross around and constrain the fury of a blue-black waterfall.

"I hope you realize how stupid you sound. 'He's a problem. I'll dispose of him of you wish it, Praetor.' You know, Odoacer plays games just like this. You wanna push him into committing some sort of insult at dinner and then shove him out an airlock? I'm sure Hades loves technicalities like that."

Bella rises up out of her chair and pulls the down across her body to start patting the rest of herself dry. Where it passes, her skin glistens and her fur shines radiant and fluffy white. Her tail curls and flicks behind her in apparent pleasure. But her legs draw in close together. Every bend she makes is carefully choreographed to angle certain parts of her body away from prying owl eyes. She lets the towel drop completely and turns her back on Lorventi, stepping toward her closet and staring thoughtfully at the outfits hanging there awaiting her pleasure.

"...He won't be a problem," she says with a glance over her shoulder, "And even if he is, I can hold the chain together. Put it out of your head, got it? Her Imperial Majesty's word is law: humanity is a precious treasure. We'll deliver him into her love as it suits our schedule."

The air inside the Anemoi has a permanent chill to it. That's the only reason for the shiver that runs down her body. Nothing else.

Where even did he get a tricorn hat? Did he bring it with him? Was he hiding it, somewhere in that mass of tentacles? Did he find a costume room somewhere in the ship?

Please let there be a costume room somewhere in the ship. She'll never admit this, but dressing up carries with it a secret thrill. The idea that with a change of hat, makeup, or clothes, you can be somebody other than yourself, just like that? Endlessly fascinating. It's like doing the voices in the library. You're not Alexa, you're Endymion crawling through the tunnels below Castle Elis, and what a relief it is to be knee-deep in sewage.

"Sir, as much as--Sir, please I--If you want ans--The mistress--" You know, it's probably not possible to throttle an octopus, but Alexa is tempted to try. Every time she tries to explain that, as much as she'd like to answer, she's physically incapable of discussing Redana, the words die in her throat. Not that it matters, since he won't stop asking new questions! She can't get a word in edgewise. Can't explain that she's not aware of Redana inventing anything, and that if he's looking forward to her lab he shouldn't be, and that she's pretty sure Redana takes more after her father than her mother, and oh goodness she could fill a book with what Redana shouldn't do, and actually that might be an interesting prospect if ever they survive this...

Eventually, she shrugs, and starts the cleanup process. Rat entrails litter the alter, and of course the surface needs to be pristine for the next augury or you'll get mixed results or, even worse, offend Poseidon. The little cage of white ship's rats--purebred, of Tellus stock--watches her as she works, and she can't resist giving one of them the customary little scratch on the head as she puts them back in their home. Go, little rats. Be free in your little commune, make baby rats, and maybe the next time you'll be the lucky ones to guide our ship.

She appreciates little rituals. It's simple, easy, comforting to know how to make somebody happy. Say the right words, repeat the right motions, be exact. That's simple.

It's a lot simpler than coming home.

Redana!

"Engage them all directly -" the Hermetician's artificial voice stuttered a little, then he let out a surprisingly melodic artificial sigh. "I see."

He is silent for a moment, and you can hear the fans whirring as he processes whatever he's thinking about.

"Princess Redana, are you at all curious to walk the Saffron Path? Some days you demonstrate a deep curiosity and enthusiasm for engines and machinery. Other days you seem content to charge headlong into battle like a mere soldier. Which do you wish to be?"

Vasilia!

The music changes tune and tempo. The whole band has joined in, playing a jaunty and rolling melody in unison. Songs as old as ancient Gaia ring out, lead by the accordion and spoken in a language that long ago lost its meaning. Da-dada~

"So I have to ask," said Galnius from the serving window, interrupting your quiet moment. "Where are we going -?" they almost said 'Captain' but stumbled over the word a bit. "Is it Ceron? The Princess wants to get an army to launch a coup?"

Alexa!

The words coming from the Assistant Secretary are a constant flow, a burbling tide of language and thought and ideas and questions. It fades into the background like the ocean, happy to continue going for all eternity regardless of your input or lack thereof.

"Hey," the voice cuts through the waves like a hydrofoil.

It's Princess Epistia. Kneeling down next to you, arm in a sling - she has the character of absolute watchfulness to her. Her physical motions are slow and deliberate, but in a constant steady series of adjustments that make her aware of everything going on around her. She has a handsomeness to her, a masculine toughness that makes her few scars shine out as fascinating and defining marks of endurance.

"Brainsquids are like... think of them as brain cells," said Epistia. "They're helpless on their own. Waiting for sensory input, issuing commands and following protocols that don't mean anything to anyone outside their system. You gotta engage them the right way."

She produces a crumpled up sheet of paper from her pocket and offers it to you along with a pen. "Give him a question or piece of data like this."

Bella!

You know beauty, Bella. You know how to recognize it, how to wear it, how to wield it. It's as natural to you as the steady hands of Aphrodite adjusting that ribbon just so, smoothing out the curls and braids until they're work fit for a god. But you have no idea how any of it impacts Lorventi. Her eyes, stance, body language is all inscrutable - that steady gaze could contain heart-pounding desire or asexual boredom and you wouldn't know which.

"Methods exist," she said. "A sacred hunt can be declared, the forms and procedures observed, the rituals maintained - precision applied to the removal of the threat without the loss of sacred life or offense given to the gods. But," she clicked her beak again, "your decision stands. Of course. Praetor."

It is hard not to feel like that intense, unblinking focus is considering you as the subject of some form of hunt.

"But to the broader problem. The Toxicrene adept has indicated that Princess Redana has accumulated a band of followers and bodyguards. Loyal enough to come back for her. To defy Imperial edicts. Troublesome," her speech often moved like that, shorter and shorter sentences followed by pauses where she seemed to collect herself and unclench her fist. "They should be targeted and removed. I believe. If it is your will?"

Redana laughs. It explodes out of her, and when she tries to rein it in, she ends up making an undignified snort[1].

“Me? Saffron? Are you kidding? Saffron robes are for smart people. People who understand cosmic enlightenment and want to upgrade their bodies! Like you, you’re a great Hermetican. You don’t just know how this stuff works, like, even I could figure that out! You know why it was made like that in the first place, and how it fits with the rest of the device[2].”

Redana shakes her head with a rueful, oblivious smile. “Besides. I was born almost perfect.” She doesn’t turn her head. There’s no need. The Auspex sees all. “And then that was fixed. So Mom would have a fit if I started taking the body she gave me apart and sticking on tentacles and plasma kidneys.”

She doesn’t answer the question of what she wants to be. It’d be easy to assume that it’s because she’s running from the question. But, really, it’s not like she can rewind the conversation and remind herself of everything the Hermetican said[3].

***

[1]: Redana Claudius is many things. “Capable of composed, elegant laughter” is not one of those things.

[2]: “And an interlocking system made of interconnections between disparate but mutually necessary components we shall term a device henceforth...”
— The Traversal Catechism, origin disputed

[3]: she does have this capability. It’s just throttled along with all the other information the Auspex summarizes into basic instructions and chibi figures. And conversational aptitude is not the primary concern of Baby’s First Auspex Framework.

"He's not a threat," Bella says with lazy disinterest as she threads her legs through a thong, "Until I say he is."

The muscles in Bella's back are tenser than the cables running through the ceiling above her. If not for the rippling across her bare skin every time she stretches forward for something it would be easy to assume she'd been carved out of a very large gemstone. The subtle traces of barely visible white lines slash haphazardly across her back where various Masters and Instructors couldn't be bothered to fully wipe away the signs of their lessons. Here and there they seem sharper and stand out more clearly, and when her shoulder blades roll back together those fresher lines knit together to form a pattern. The rose looks meant for her flesh; no other back could bear its beauty.

She draws a sharp breath through her nose. Her tail curls tightly at the tip before it lashes aggressively around her knees. She plucks a skirt off of a hanging wire, and then all at once her body unclenches. She sniffs again. No fear smell, here. She sighs, and pulls the lacy fabric up around her hips to the narrow band of her waist.

Black and white, her colors. So black and white her clothing today, as well. As always, since her mission began. Satiny layers of curling black fabric flutter unevenly against her legs, short enough to expose the better part of her left thigh while long enough to brush the ground at her right on the outermost layer. Each line of fabric is trimmed with an intricate white lace frill that naturally draws a wandering eye down the length of her leg and back up the bare fur to marvel at the wide black belt with the golden laurel buckle she fastens before she's even selected a shirt.

Her ears bend to the back of her head with every beak click and soft crunch that signifies the Captain has squeezed or opened her fists again, seeking for the sounds of the squish of boot on carpet or (more likely) the whistle that signals 'precision' to her removal from Lorventi's precious hierarchy, but nothing comes. They wiggle delicately atop her head as she slips a soft and warm looking black shirt up over her outstretched arms and then all the way down to tuck in around her belt. The bare sleeves dip open around her shoulders to show off more of her prized white fur, and the flares around her wrist are trimmed with still more prim and proper white lace.

She reaches up and gingerly lifts her braid and its ribbons up from underneath her shirt collar and tosses the shimmering masterpiece of her art carelessly down across her back. Her golden eyes gleam in her reflection in the closet mirror. This is a good look. The princess will like this look. She'll remember, when she sees it. This time, she'll remember who her real friend is. Although...

She reaches one final time and pulls out a stiff white corset with pearl fastenings. With a deeply practiced care that no one ever notices, much less praised her for, she squeezes it around her waist and delicately clasps each opalescent catch into place until, with a tiny suck of air, she finishes with the one just underneath her breasts. She smirks at her own reflection, and the prominent treasures she's put securely on display. Yes. This time for sure.

"But you're absolutely right about the Princess' little band of misfits. I couldn't agree more, Captain. Nuisances, the lot of them. Troublesome? Absolutely! Why, I'd say they're a bigger obstacle to our mission than anything we've run across so far, and that includes the leviathan."

Bella steps into her boots with a jingle and saunters across the room to the table where her jewelry lies waiting for her. She slides her talons lovingly into place on her fingers. When she turns to face the Captain, her face twists into a sneer.

"Them, I've got no use for. 'Removing' them is my will exactly. And I know just which one to start with..."

A thousand synapses fire, and every one of them is screaming in panic.

A princess is! Is kneeling! Kneeling in front of her, oh Hera and Aphrodite this isn't how it's supposed to go, this isn't how it happened in the books! Quick! What does she remember about the Ceronians, she had to have served with some, what did they do, unless oh fuck they've been on their own for so long would that have changed the forms aaaaaaaaagh--Kneel! Kneel back! That's gotta be the right answer!

And it's only the strictly enforced discipline of Molech that keeps the descent from being more gangly than it is. She must be perfect. Must be graceful.

"A thousand pardons," she intones, eyes carefully fixed on the floor. "I did not hear you approach. and lack the knowledge of your customs. May I have the honor of knowing in which manner to address you?"

Dolce’s movement were so slight, they bordered on imperceptible. A proper wine pour needed a steady hand, no? His one hand tilted gently, letting the wine fill Vasilia’s waiting glass. The other held a cloth napkin, whiter than his wool, standing ready to intercept errant drops before they stained her throne of cushions. (It was a formality. There would be no spills on his watch.) He poured a splash or three extra - just how she liked it - set the bottle aside, and waited by her side with an artful array of cheeses, meats, and crackers. The model of a loyal servant, waiting on his Lady.

Minus the lightly wrinkled clothes, lightly bitten ears, and lightly flushed cheeks he was willing back to white. If these constituted a breach of duty, then please direct all complaints to the Captain.

Or...perhaps not. Not today, please? He was used to schooling his face calm, less so the icy hands that gripped his heart and froze his blood. Oh, how he could do without those today. First he’d thought she actually intended to write him up for insubordination (She was joking! Of course she was, how could he have not seen it?) and now this? Please, oh Aphrodite, let Galnius be on their way soon…

Vasilia swirled her wineglass, basking in the aroma and hiding a pout. “Is that what you think? That the Princess of Humanity needs the invincible legions to wage a bloody civil war across Telos?” She took a sip of the glittering red. Did she enjoy it? Did she notice her favorite vintage? He’d picked it out especially for today. Her lips parted with a contented sigh, and he all but fainted with relief joy. “You really haven’t spent much time with her, have you?”

“The Princess doesn’t wish to hurt her mother.” He added, offering her the tray. “Not if she can help it.”

“Mmm. Indeed. She’s a kind soul, our Redana.” Her eyes went distant. What was she thinking about? Who was she remembering? Was that a grimace, before she found her easy smile again? “We’re on a slightly different course. One given to us by Hades, along with the ship.” She dabbled in one of the offerings from the tray. She did love a creamy cheese when she fell into her blacker moods. And the crackers! He’d made sure they had a good crunch to them, she liked her crackers with character, as she said. The smile she favored him with was enough to make him forget his worry, for a few precious moments. “Excellent, my dear. Simply marvelous. Yes, we’ve been tasked with a journey to Gaia. You may well be one of the first humans to see it in quite some time.”

Redana!

The Hermetician whirred, coming about, clattering under his robes as his tripod legs shifted into a triskellion cross-legged sitting position. "It is impossible to be born perfect. After all, you grew. You changed. You honed muscles and reflexes, habits and mannerisms. You obtained cybernetics and new forms of perception. You became an adult. Became a woman. Became a runaway. Even now you are embarked upon a ludicrous journey beyond the frontiers of known space. Stating that you are nothing more than your genetics and augmentics is a sign of perilous humility."

The Hermitician set down his bowl, and then with a sudden move of his concealed hand shattered it. "Intelligence is the same as strength - a brute force thing obtainable by machines. Not without value, but not worthy of praise. The virtue required to walk the Path is curiosity, Princess. Do the machines spark it within you?"

Vasilia!

"Gaia!?" said Galnius in surprise. "It was destroyed, surely? A world inverted and abandoned, coughing up bones of iron. And that was before the Tear, even -" they stop, and then frown. "You're joking with me. And won't tell me where we're actually going."

Alexa!

Princess Epistia pauses awkwardly, and then sets the paper and pen down on the ground. She looks like she's making a difficult choice "Everyone calls me Isty," she said. "Relax. I'm not a real princess... I mean, if I was I'd be a queen right now anyway. I'm just a warrior."

Bella!

"Your will, Praetor," said Captain Lorventi, and by Hera, wouldn't it have been nice if she at least sounded satisfied at that? Some confirmation that she actually cared about this work - that she was passionate about something.

"Then we should discuss assets," she said. "In addition to myself and five hundred Kaeri soldiers - plus two thousand menials - the Anemoi contains representatives of four of Artemis' greatest hunter-temples. You know the Toxicrene Adept, but you also have -" a little emphasis on the 'you' there - Lorventi doesn't quite have the guile to disguise the fact that the assassins do not answer to her at all. "- an Ikarani, a Diodekoi and a Oratus at your command."

And honestly you're not sure the Kaeri in their full five hundred strong could take on those four assassins.

The Toxicrene temple you know - Mynx, the poisoner and shapeshifter, master of the biological - and there's a reason she's the only one you've met in person. Simply put, she's by far the most stable of the bunch and Toxicrenes often serve as handlers and deployment for the other types. The Ikarani are known for being information addicts, hypergeniuses that absorb every fact that they encounter. Diodekoi are warriors who train to fight the very gods - prayer-soaked walking cathedrals who can find ways to harm even those blessed by the most powerful divine favour. Oratus are political operators and hypnotists who can incite madness in crowds and wield entire nations as crushing hammers to slay their targets.

Deploying even one of these is no small matter. Many cannot be recovered once unleashed, consuming themselves in their own madness and hubris until the gods put them out of their misery.

"They are available to inspect at your will, Praetor."

Bella is nearly as adept at hiding her reactions to things as Lorventi. Just ask Redana; she's like a sphinx! There are only a couple of subtle tells that give her away. Like the violent twitching of her eyebrow just now. Or the way her eyes open so wide in incredulous shock. There's the way her lips curl back into an even sharper sneer, of course. And if you watch very carefully you can see her reach out with both hands as if to strangle something, then clench at nothing. She moves them up to her head but there's nothing for her do with them there, either. She winds up folding them across her chest in a gesture that is not the slightest bit defensive, no not at all, and taps one claw into the crook of her elbow.

"You," she snarls, "Unbelievable as-- hhhrrrngh! How am I only hearing about this now?! Are you telling me they've been here the entire time? You let me march straight into... I could have just... I had to... son of a bitch!"

Bella's tail lashes behind her as she sways unevenly on her legs, evidently not knowing whether she wants to plant her feet or pace with them. The motion sends ripples up and down her skirts that give off the impression of a black burning candle in the wind. She squeezes her arms tight and takes a deep breath. And then another one when that doesn't work.

"You're gonna cite some sort of dumbassed bureaucracy thing at me, I just know it. Don't even bother. I don't want to hear it. Just stand there and nod, or I swear to Hera I'm going to throw you out an airlock right... hhhhffffff... no. No. It's fine. It's fine that this happened. I learned more by going there myself. It's fine. Fine!"

Slowly, she lets herself uncoil. She has to pinch her nose between her thumb and a talon, but she even forced her breathing into a calm, normal pattern. Unbidden, the image of Redana flashes into her head: smiling and laughing, all sweaty and covered with dirt from wrestling all day, taking her Bella's words at face value without having to be asked to. Bella's ears start to flatten, and she violently shakes her head to clear it.

"Just... yes. I would like to inspect them for myself. Now. Right now. And bring me Mynx. The... Toxicrene adept to you. I have... things I need to discuss with her."

“Do the machines spark it within me?” Redana considers it for a moment, cradling the bread bowl in one hand. “I don’t think I can be curious. I know all their parts. I can figure out what needs to be fixed. And it’s a good workout, too. When I get it running, I’m satisfied. But I’m not curious. It’s enough to know that it’s working again, that I took something broken and made it better.”

She looks out at the swirls of red and white, biting her lips thoughtfully. The thought works through her. “That, though. Out there.” She points at a swirl that might have been the flick of a tail from some sea-dwelling beast, disappeared back into the dust. “That! I want to see what’s beyond that, what’s hiding inside it, and... I want to see it all. I never could have dreamed that this would be out here! I’d seen drawings, but the real thing is, wow! That’s what makes me curious, Master Hermetic, that’s what makes me want to walk! Is that the Saffron path? Or something connected to it?”

She turns and looks hopefully at the priest of Hermes, suspended in a moment of possibility where she’s ready to believe anything. It’s so painfully earnest, isn’t it? The hope that she might be told her wanderlust is contained within the saffron, or that there is an ancient order of knights-compass in whose steps she could follow, or that the Hermetic might tell her to follow the rainbow road of the mariner-priestess...