Redana shrugs off her coat and begins to modify it distractedly. She had made it more military in aspect, thinking Vasilia would want to project strength: epaulettes, braids, and a double row of buttons. The buttons stay, but her fingers smooth out the rest of her decorations back into the fabric. Instead... something more Hermetic. Bella would know what to put on there. A wing? A talon? The wand? The tablet? An eye, ringed in feathered orange, bright and stark on the dark synthfabric.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, and not just because they have the right to travel among the stars. The Auspex makes something breathtaking out of the throbbing furnaces and intricate fields, magnetic and otherwise, like an impossible butterfly pinned against the glittering stars. Of course Mother forced them out here to be her hands and eyes and ears. If something like that hung like a second moon over Tellus, it would always be an implicit challenge, even if the entire Ceronian fleet sat on their haunches by its side.

Then she closes her eyes and focuses. Everything’s been so... so unreal. Ever since Baradissar. Ever since Bella. Ever since she was touched by Dionysus who makes women mad. If he had touched her differently, what would she have done to Bella? If he hadn’t touched her at all, would she have given in and been taken home by her, in her fury, with her threats?

Was Dionysus on her side at all, or was the Mirrored-Mask simply touching a coin as it spun through the air to make it land on its side?

What’s important is that Alexa is on her side. What’s important is that the Starsong Privateers believe in her. And so she believes in them, too.

“Awaiting your orders, Captain,” she says. There is, unconscious, underneath, her mother speaking through her. She does not ask Vasilia if she may be of use; she simply asserts that her place is, in this moment, doing whatever she can to assist Vasilia. Confidence. She has to have confidence. Alexa deserves that, at least.

And Alexa deserves the gentle look that Redana shoots her way as the princess pulls on her remade jacket. One that says: you got this. One that says: I’m thinking of you, so don’t worry. One that says: you’re not alone, Alexa.

Vasilia!

Galnius looks at you with flat boredom. You don't get the impression that they're the type to start fights - these are soldiers from Tellus, practically ceremonial, who spend all their time training, patrolling and polishing the buttons on their uniforms. Diplomatic honour guard work is their military occupational speciality and you'll have no problems from them here.

Princess Epistia, however, reacts exactly as your glare merits - an embarrassed blush and an attempt to hide her enormous warscythe behind her back. She will be trouble, as only a wilful and naive runaway can be. Isn't it great you have two of those? At least Redana seems to have cleaned up a lot better. Epistia looks like a lost farmer.

"I concur with the Captain," buzzed Iskarot. "Claim hospitality and they will respect it. Respect their customs and you will have access even amidst their halls of power. Insult them not, for the only law here is theirs. Tempt them not, for they are acquisitive. Accept no gifts under any circumstances. A favourite negotiating tactic of Magos Birmingham is to lavish people with spectacular gifts, wowing them into speechlessness right up until the point where it comes out that he is taking their ship in exchange. Neither can you decline too firmly for he may feign anger. I believe, hmm, the cook servitor will be more familiar with this manner of polite non-committal rejection than I am. And on that note, I would like to volunteer for the ground mission. I am unconvinced of my ability to remain covert in Birmingham's presence."

Bella!

"Empress Nero was huge into pants ten years ago," said Mynx. "You remember? White and black tuxes, with falsefabric so that the colour inverts depending on the lighting and shadows. Looks like these hicks finally caught up with that fad - dim the lights, see if the colour flips."

She's very distinctly not flirting right now. She's playing it cool and normal but that itself is a tell - Mynx flirts to assert social control, and the fact that she's not doing that means she's in way over her head right now. She's never been good at maintaining sassiness after you've actually put your hands on her.

"Hey, uh, so you know how the Diodekoi Adept got out during the fight?" This again? "I'm just wondering, you know. Do you think one of the Lanterns woke it up? You hang out with them, has your Auspex seen any hidden Artemis tattoos or anything?"

Mynx has been on this for like a week now and this is her dumbest theory yet. No, the ship's serviles didn't put in the activation codes for one of the Empress' army-slaying assassins. That walking cathedral just walked out through the big hole in the side of its cell and destroyed five Plovers - almost half the enemy boarding force - by itself in arguably the most straightfowards case of self defense in the galaxy. Other than the wardrobe upgrade, that live fire proof of how unstoppable your assassin is was the best thing to come from that stupid encounter. And Mynx just can't seem to chill out and take the win.

The Chef Mate dipped his head without looking from the viewport. “Thank you, sir, for that gracious assessment. I will be sure to keep it close to mind.”

Which earned him a loving ruffle of his wooly ears from the Captain.

Six place settings, two tables. Near-infinite combinations to choose from, and nevermind what Dolce might tell you about figures and combinatorial claptrap. Practically speaking though, how many decisions did she have to make?

Just one, as it turned out. All the rest had been made for her.

Iskarot could not go the Yakanov without causing a scene. He must go to the planet.

She was the Captain of the Plousios. To not visit the Yakanov would be to deliver a grievous insult, and raise questions of their true motives here. She and Dolce must go to the Yakanov.

Galnius and his hoplites would provide stability and respectability - and it was proof positive of their dire predicament that they needed them for the latter - and they numbered far too few to make a difference on the surface. They would accompany her to the Yakanov.

Epestia and Redana were problems in the making, but Redana might be capable of keeping a lid on it so long as she didn’t fall in with a bad crowd. Or over-eager Ceronians with more scythe than sense. The two of them must be kept apart.

Alexa was sensible, capable, reliable, and already got on well with Epestia. A grounding force that would stick close by her side. The two of them needed to be paired up, for all their sakes.

Which left one decision, upon which all the others hung:

Would Redana be better off by her side, or apart?

Vasilia took Redana’s measure; tone of voice, sharpness of stance, consistency with time, state of dress, so on, and so forth. She would not be rushed to speak. “You will accompany the good Hermetician to the surface. From a distance, you will be just another priest with their acolyte, and no one will be any the wiser. You are to explore the planet, make contact with the Alced, and lay the groundwork for taking them onboard.” And if there was a hint of fondness in her eyes as she sent Redana off on the adventures she so craved, well! Then take it as you may. “Am I understood?”

In the end, hardly much of a decision at all.

"You're starting to piss me off."

Bella snorts her irritation as she turns her back to her friend again. Her tail flicks like a whip as she dresses, only calming for just long enough for her to thread it through the hole sewn into her panties as she pulls the lace fabric up around her hips, then one more time when she repeats the motion with her pants. It lashes so aggressively that she has to pause in the middle of fastening her sheer black bra to grab and squeeze the tip until the pain calms her down again. She rolls her eyes and spins around again to lean against her wardrobe as she works the straps over her arms.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing. The second things start going my way you swoop in here you start inventing problems and magically you're the only one who can sense or stop them. Pretty fucking convenient, isn't it? Suddenly your useless ass is indispensable and you get to tell the Empress that I'm the one who's messing everything up."

There's no snappy comebacks to fill the pause while she stands there, half-dressed. No stammered excuses, either. The look on Mynx's face is so mask-like that it almost feels like a slap in the face. Bella glares through her newly mismatched eyes, but she's the one who blinks. She pulls out a tight fitting black jacket and slips it on without bothering with a shirt, fiddling with the neat rows of brass buttons until the whole thing is completely covering her with the vague Ancient World military aesthetic that Her Majesty also favored for a brief period, once upon a time. She reaches for the light switch, and sure enough in the changing lights her outfit inverts. She shrugs; at least she isn't bringing this back half-assed.

"This is the last time I'm going to tell you, there is nothing wrong on my ship. The Lanternites are under my control, the Kaeri are sulking but handled. And in any case neither one of them has anybody capable of unleashing Her Highness' assassins loose without my direct say-so. Even Lorventi admitted to that. You were wrong about Redana. And you're wrong about this. I won't let you take this from me."

"Bella, that's not what I--"

"Stop, Mynx. Just stop."

But the silence gnaws at Bella's chest. It tears at her with terrible teeth as she lifts the open-fronted red skirt off the top of her wardrobe and ties it around her waist. She swallows and looks away, her tail curling around her leg as she busies herself with a belt that cinches her clothing even tighter and forcefully highlights the shape of her body underneath the fabric. There's not a word spoken between them while she arranges the gold chain jewelry about her neck outside the high collar of her jacket and straightens out the intricate pattern of links and loops about her right shoulder. The longer she works, the tighter her chest clenches. She nearly reaches for her jacket buttons, as though that could fix it, but stops and forces herself to focus on lacing up a pair of dainty black boots up her calves, instead.

She hasn't done a thing with her hair since she got out of bed. She hasn't brushed or straightened it all week, in fact. Her fingers tremble as she hesitantly starts combing through the tangles to one side of her head, just enough to weave a single braid back into her hair, and in the middle of this act something or some god finally lifts her chin enough to look at the bed again.

Mynx is still there. Watching her. For some stupid, unknowable reason... she hasn't left. Bella sighs. Words of apology do not pass her lips. They don't cross her mind, even as she reaches for a handful of ribbons tied to a batch of bells she has no good reason for wearing anymore, and ties them to her belt. Her snarl is a sound of absolute frustration.

"Ok, fine! You win! If it'll make you shut up, then I'm conscripting you to be my bodyguard. You know, officially. Since you won't leave me alone anyway. Just be normal about it, for fuck's sake. Prove that I can trust you, Mynx."

Smiling isn't natural during a war council. It's especially unnatural to smile at your ward. It calls on muscles that, long-disused, have wasted away. It ignores instincts, baked in since carving and hammered in afterwards, that say that concealing your emotions is the only way to avoid being hurt.

But Alexa chooses to do so anyway. It's small, and tentative, and nervous enough that the slightest sign of disapproval will banish it like a scent on the wind, but it's there. She sees, and she hears, and she appreciates.

The smile hesitates, and then wafts away at Iskarot's words.

It's not that she hasn't thought about boarding an entire ship of Hermeticians. Indeed, she's done her level best to avoid its presence as much as possible, and the thought of spending time in an entire ship just like it has hung over her head, a constant looming disaster-in-waiting. And a master who loves nothing more than to decided, on a whim, to take the most interesting piece of a collection? It's not flattery to worry about that, surely?

"I volunteer to accompany her," she says quietly. Redana does not need her, evidently. But she bears the good graces of the Hermetician. Surely his impulses can be tempered by her presence?

The last piece is the eyepatch. It suggests motive for joining the Order: if you’re missing one anyway, why go through regrowth therapy when you have the perfect opportunity to get an upgrade? The strap breaks the silhouette of her green bangs, and the skull-molded cap sits perfectly from the bridge of her nose to the corner of the socket, hiding that unnatural blue. Nobody will give her a second look; she’s just a spunky little acolyte here to fetch and carry and transcribe for her master.

“To the end, follow the Path,” she says, bowing with one arm crossed over her chest. “Your will be done, Navicularius Saeculāris.” Captain, not of the Order. It is amazing what little bits manage to stick in her head, isn’t it?

There might actually be a chance she manages to stay incognito, as long as Iskarot can keep an eye on her and nobody pleads for heroic assistance within earshot and also someone distracts Hera. Which is unlikely, but tantalizingly possible.

Bella!

"Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!" Mynx can't keep herself from jumping up and wrapping her arms around your shoulders, even at the risk of being clawed. "I won't let you down, Artemis see that I don't!"

You might almost envy her that simple and absolute joy. Mynx was made for the purpose of guarding people, getting to play bodyguard creates a sense of validation as profound as throwing a ball for a dog. This! This is why she's here! As quick as blinking she's gone straight for your wardrobe, already shifting into a perfect copy of you. Within a few minutes of tossing fabric you have an exact mirror image of yourself standing before you, straightening the edges of her suit jacket.

"Right!" she said, giving your voice a bright tone you haven't heard from it in... "Okay! So! I think we just don't explain what's going on with us - are we twins, clones, or what. Make them guess. We can either do weird eerie co-ordination or good-Bella bad-Bella, what do you think?"

Well-spoken, acolyte! Well-spoken indeed. You bring honor to this crew just as you bring a smile to your Captain’s eyes. Just be sure you bring back that uniform in one piece, yes? It would be a shame to lose such a fine piece of craftsmanship.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I’m afraid there will be no volunteers this time. Not when we’re spread as thin as we are.” But your enthusiasm has been noted, and gladly. “Alexa, you are with me, and Epestia, you are with Alexa. You have free reign to break off from the retinue as you see fit, but do not let yourselves be separated. We don’t know what we’ll be walking into there, so be on your guard, and keep your eyes open for opportunity.”

Do you notice, Alexa? Do you catch the half-step missed as she turns to you? Do you spy the price of the miles she’s bought you, in the pause to catch a breath? And when she speaks, do you hear how she’d pay it all again, without question? “I’m counting on you, Alexa. We’re outnumbered, and we need every able body who can navigate one of the Order’s functions.”

"Of course, Captain."

Alexa doesn't dare look. There's the chance, yes, that Epistia is forgiving. That she'll be excited, happy even, with this assignment. It's a day out, a chance to spend time with one another! And if there's anybody who could be counted on to guard her from the predations of curious priests, it's Epistia!

She wants to hope. But the thought of what she might see--disappointment, or anger, or even simple resignation!--better to seal it away deep in a vault, where reality will not tarnish it.

"I'll be fine," Redana says, and she almost manages to whisper it. And she means it! Despite all the things that have happened to her thus far on this voyage, she still believes that she will be fine; that she will not need Alexa looming over her; that she doesn't need a bodyguard as much as she needs someone who believes in her. Her sincerity is painful, isn't it? And yet, it is precious. Something that refuses to die despite someone's best efforts to snuff it out.

She wants Alexa to know she's not going to cling to her. And more than that, she needs Alexa to know that she won't be slighted; that she does feel she can take care of herself, and she will, she really will this time, honest. How can anyone say no to that face?

"I told you to be n-- nnnnnnnnrgh!"

Bella holds the breath in her lungs until it starts to burn, then slowly pushes it out. As she does, she lifts her hands to her chest and then slowly pushes them down to her thighs, where she stretches her fingers out as far as they'll go. Her jaw clenches with guilt; she's stealing a ritual from Empress Nero right now and she's not sure if her position gives her that right. But in any case it works as well as she can remember it helping Her Majesty.

She is calm. Calm enough to watch... herself. Or, no. More like the memory of herself. When was the last time she bounced like that when she moved? She hears her own voice inflecting upwards until it cracks in an excited squeak that she hasn't made since she... since she was a child. Since her life was about preparing a princess for fancy parties and being allowed to attend Her Majesty's grand plays as a special treat for being a Good Girl.

She hadn't realized she could still make sounds like that. She clenches her teeth and clutches at her head as a wave of pressure builds underneath her temple. It swells with the memories, too tangled, jumbled, and intense to pluck any specific thought from the kaleidoscope. All it brings is pain. Pressure. Pain. The muscles in her neck start to cramp, as if realizing all at once how tense they are. That tension creeps down to her shoulders, and then...

She takes another deep breath, and this ritual is hers to use freely. The faint wisp of Mynx's scent hits her nostrils, and bit by bit Bella unclenches. She opens her eye again, not having realized she'd squeezed it shut in the first place. She is calm. Calm. That is not her. It's not. Mynx finishes dressing herself, and spins around. Bella greets the sight of her own face all lit up in giddy excitement with a bemused smirk. It melts almost instantly into a serious expression as she considers the puzzle in front of her.

"...Go ahead and mirror me," she says after a minute, "Start or finish sentences for me or... whatever. I don't care how you do it, just make them think we're linked somehow. It'll throw them off more that way when we switch."

Bella frowns at a sudden thought, and hesitates. Her nostrils flare as she drinks in Mynx's scent, like she's trying to hold it in her memory.

"You need perfume. Anybody with a halfway decent nose will pick you out faster than the way you flirt. We have to match, or it's pointless."

Redana!

For a little moment there it had almost felt like you'd gotten used to galaxy outside Tellus. You'd seen the clouds and nebulae of Zeus, you'd seen starships, you'd even seen a whole new planet - just as built up and developed as Tellus, but covered in a faint sheen of fine ash and dust and entrapped beneath thick and obscuring pollution haze. You'd seen a garden jungle inside the interior of the Eater of Worlds and that had been amazing. You've seen marvels and been traveling for over a month now, but you were starting to see the patterns.

You have, however, never seen the blue sky.

You have never seen clouds.

You have never even dreamed of the ocean.

It's the most total sense of vertigo you have ever felt. You've seen space, but space is full - wherever you look there are colours and lights and storms and debris. This narrow band of atmosphere creates an optical illusion of greater vastness than you have ever comprehended, with enormous flying castles of spectacular white ice cream towering up on a scale that rivals the great Imperial battleships.

For the first time in your life you feel the breeze on your face. It is salty, carrying with it the faint flavour and coolness of the ocean. There is water in inconceivable quantities, advancing steadily upon the shore as though it is alive. The crashing, rolling breath of it seems to drown out all other sounds. Water was meant to move with the rattle and groan of pipes, air was meant to be the steady roar of air conditioning megastations. Basic facts of the elements.

But this, it seems, is what happens when the wind and water are unchained to do as they please.

Alexa!

You fought here once.

Ridenki was a critical world in the path of Director Nero's Rebellion. This was the world that supplied the food, water and logistics base for the rebels to strike Baradissar. The Alced were a servitor species placed here by the Emperor to defend this world and you fought alongside them as the sky darkened with the fiery rain of Ceronian drop pods.

You remember the great Alcedi surface ships - enormous naval flotillas that projected vast fleets of atmospheric fighter craft and carried enough anti-aircraft guns to ignite the skies. You remember the oceans erupting into vast columns of steam as reactors melted down on dying battleships. You remember as enormous starships dropped from the heavens in columns of fire, victims of the space battle or destroyed by planetary defense lasers. The jungles had burned. The volcanoes had erupted. And by the end, Ares triumphed. You remember seeing the war god arise, massive and bloody, covering horizon to horizon with ships - star and sail - crammed into his mouth as the evacuation sirens howled.

You had thought this planet had been destroyed, to be a ruin as total as Baradissar.

Instead it's a tropical paradise. The planet is greener than it ever was, the oceans a shining teal scattered with emeralds. Even with the buzzing flow of gold-striped ships rising and falling from the surface the planet is healthier now than perhaps it was even under Molech. You sense Empress Nero's hand here, though you have no idea why she would have taken the time to fix this planet.

Vasilia!

The worst thing about being in a room full of Hermetics is that you have no idea of their hierarchy. They have one - an exceedingly complicated and binding one - but it is deliberately kept obscure from outsiders. The corridors bustle with figures of incredible shapes and sizes swathed in identical saffron robes that cover their features from head to toe, darklight generators inside their hoods keeping their faces hidden. Look closer, though, and those robes have dozens of minor variations. Different sashes, stripes, hats, external robes, cuts of shape and colour. Academic robes have carried encoded information about rank and specialty since ancient times and the Hermetics have embraced that whole-heartedly. You're surrounded by information and have no idea what any of it means.

Say what you will about the Empire, at least they leave you in absolutely no confusion about who is in charge.

On that note, Galnius and their hoplites are doing incredible work. Their deeply ingrained Imperial arrogance let them cut through every single layer of protocol and paperwork on the way through here, somehow instinctively knowing who they could brush aside and who they had to take seriously. They've navigated you here to some sort of promenade - a large walkway with an expansive view of the planet. Sandstone tiles, grand statues of abstract shapes engraved with dedications in secret Hermetic script, and rivers of ever-burning fire running in channels for warmth and illumination. It's darker than an Imperial ship - not quite as dark as the Plousios, but where your ship is dark because it is broken and unmanned these lights are dim because secrecy is valued by the Hermetics.

"Captain Vasilia, and retinue," said a Hermetic - without face or body language to go on you're only able to figure out which one by the fact that it was standing still and nearby. "I am Pilate Borin, and in the name of Zeus we humble pilgrims of the Yakanov grant you welcome and hospitality. What wind has bought you to us this day?"

Galnius glanced at you sidelong, and nodded. This is someone worth talking to.

Bella!

For a moment you might have worried. For just the barest fragment of a second you might have been aware that you were a long way away from Tellus, and your assault frigate - tiny in the shadow of the Yakanov - would leave you at the mercy of the Order of Hermes. Perhaps the galaxy had forgotten what was meant by Empire?

Not so the Order of Hermes.

Some barbarians might have greeted you in force, with a full military parade demonstrating their order and discipline as well as their respect. The Order of Hermes greets you with vulnerability. You stand alongside Mynx on the top of the docking ramp - the Yakanov is a mobile spaceport large enough to dock the entire Anemoi without the need for transit shuttles - and look down upon a field of treasures.

Latinum and quadranix and hyperium and hydronix, stacked high in enormous engraved shipping containers. Silks by the bale, enormous crates of prayer weaves, wheeled bookshelves full of charts, archives and records. Relic devices from the deepest vaults laid out on woolen blankets and dozens of the Order's senior priests with their foreheads pressed into the ground in kowtow. In the back, silhouetted in the shadows of the distant loading bay, is one of the Order's legendary god-engines. It's a fortune, the plunder of a dozen worlds, and it fills every spare inch of the docking bay. Even if you packed the Anemoi's corridors you would not fit it all. Your Auspex does not give you precise numbers, exact tonnage reports - instead it gives you a feeling deep satisfaction and control. It hurts them to offer this much. The Empire's - and by extension, your - good will matters to them more than all this fortune.

(Though - perhaps that is not accurate? Perhaps this show of wealth and vulnerability is not mere loyalty. Perhaps it is fear. Perhaps it is distraction.)

"Imperial Praetor," said the lead Hermetician - a Pilate, your Auspex picks out from the patterning of her robes, lieutenant to the Magos. "The Order of Hermes is at the Empire's disposal."

This is a place of contradictions.

The docking bay is a messy crisscross of starlight-bright lighting and deep shadows crawling out of passages leading deeper into the leviathan sized bulk of their great ships. You could fit much of the Imperial Palace in this room alone. And yet. The light bounces off of the gathered tribute here in a way that feels clumsy and cluttered, that takes these infinite-seeming treasures and crams them with spotlight levels of lack of grace into piles until their luster is all drained out of them.

The clutter is so intense that the bay gives the impression of being smaller than the Princess' old bedroom, even with the Anemoi looming behind her as just one of many ships swallowed inside this beast's grand belly. Where the darkness should cast gloom and mystery, it feels cheap and poorly optimized, instead. Compared to the impossible murk of Bella's own ship the Hermetics would need to work a lot harder than this if they wanted to frighten her. Or hide anything from her. Instead it's just like they couldn't settle on an interior decorator and hired five of them at the same time. Empress Nero would be appalled.

The smell of this place is... confusing. Back home, labs (were everywhere, first of all) gave off a sense of absolute sterility. They smelled of nothing so strongly that it burned her nose. Or if not that, the scent was burns and metal shavings and the oddly alluring aroma of varying kinds of oils and fuels. Whichever way they tended, they committed, and their domain was absolute within the walls that Nero had set for them.

Bella had expected more of the same here, but every sniff only further confused her. This place wasn't clean. And this place wasn't put to work. There were wafts of personal perfumes that lingered from where this or that Coherent stayed to chat with someone however long ago, and the always unpleasant smell of uncontained dust drifting across... everything, really. To her left were traces of mud, sweat, and brine that several, or more likely several hundred people dragged across the floor on their way back from whatever it was they were doing on the planet below, and none of them or even anybody who noticed afterwards could apparently be bothered to clean it up properly. A Servitor who left the palace in this bad a shape would be whipped to death, and they'd be absolutely right to do it. She's smelled gymnasiums that were cleaner than this.

And yet, the marks of cleaners were everywhere, as well. It wasn't as if they didn't know how any of this worked. The god-engine sitting almost too far back to see was so immaculate that even Bella doubted she could manage better. Some hallways felt fresher, while others seemed ready to corrode under their obvious lack of care and standards. Everywhere she looked, it was a mess. But more than that, it was a mess of a mess.

She grinds her teeth as her Auspex flicks this way and that to inspect the treasures laid out just to please her. And here a fierce sense of pride wells up inside her throat almost like a back-kick of wine might after a bad bender. Hot and yearning, almost as good as it felt bad, with a lingering sort of shiver following after that said that this was enough, this was more than enough, this was too much by half and that she needed more anyway. Her tongue feels ash dry in the dusty hangar. Would it have killed them to lead their little show with some actual wine?

"As you are, of course, aware, it has been a period of 57 years, 9 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, and 11 hours since Her Imperial Highness last sent someone of your position and, ah, stature to treat with us so deep into the Frontier. We are as honored as you might imagine to be able to reset that particular counter."

Bella arches an eyebrow slightly. No, she did not know that thank you very much. There's a thinness to this Pilate's voice and a deeply unpleasant hissing behind every word she says. It's tinny and artificial, but worse than that there's a harsh clicking that accompanies every hard syllable and sticks inside her ears. It rings, and it builds, and it rings. It's worse than a headache. Her ears flutter with pain, as if trying to shake the voice out of them.

"...six point eight tonnes of hydronix, the uses of which are manifold. We hope that these quantities prove sufficient for you to advance your own projects while you carry out the Empire's good work. Now, as to the silks, which I can imagine excite you given your, ah, proclivities..."

She's still going. Bella has stood here wordlessly this entire time, and yet no amount of blatant disinterest seems enough to cut this short. Always these games with people like this. Information masquerading as secrets, and secrets pretending to lie in the open until you bend to pick them up. She's exhausted already. She stretches her hand to one side, and a moment later a tall-ish Lanternite done up in the ceremonial stylings of her people has set a glass in Bella's hand with a wordless bow. A second later, another shorter girl pours the wine. The vintage of Baradissar. Bella nods, and the pair retreats noiselessly to the shadows of the Anemoi without a word having passed between any of them.

"...a praetor from the Servitor races! Empress Nero has long favored the children of Ceron, but even they aren't known to be given Her own authority to be carried around like this. Forgive me for my boldness, but I would be very glad to hear your stories of how you overcame your handicaps to rise to such an exalted--"

Her golden eye contracts into an angry slit. Her tail flicks with displeasure. These are the measures of her politeness before she surges forward like a storm and lifts the Pilate off the ground with one arm. Her fist clenches a ball of intricately patterned robe and pulls it tight around whatever sort of freak show is hiding underneath it. Bella's arm sings with strength. She is a golden wave of raw power that surges across the docking bay and slams the Hermitician against a particularly large crate, knocking several bars of latinum skittering across the floor. In the mismatched lights of the room, her Auspex gleams like a tiny, evil moon. Her claws shift upward off the robes, seeking what passes here for a throat to press themselves against.

"Shut. Up."

She squeezes. Suddenly all the words are gone, like magic. The clicking is gone, faded to a distant echo in her ears. She squeezes harder, and even the hissing starts to stutter. It's like crushing a grape, right down to the juices that start to trickle down her fingers. Bella makes a disgusted noise and tosses the Pilate to the ground to shudder and gasp for new air. She turns away, and swirls her wine.

"The next one of you fuckers to open your mouth had better have something useful to say," she hisses, "or I swear in front of the gods I will crack this ship in half!"

She drains her glass in a single swig. It's gone before she can even taste it.

[Speak Harshly: 3+2+2=7. My question is actually straight from the book: "What are you hiding?"]

That is not quite correct. Redana has imagined the sea before. The sea is vast and still and contains both wonders and horrors within its depths; it is a motif in the Pelagic Hymns. In her imagination it is dark and colorless, water piled upon water, and Poseidon keeps all that lies below. There are horses that live in it. And her mother took the sea and reclaimed its depths, filtered the waters in great supply-vats until they ran sweet, turned the hidden places of Poseidon into more residential space, and sacrificed something unspeakable to Poseidon so that the skies above would not drown Tellus in retaliation. The sea once was; then it was remembered in song; and now it is here and she was wrong, she was so wrong, because the sea shines.

It’s like the sun is leaking and light lies slick on the water, unwilling to come close to the shore, because that’s where Poseidon’s horses are. She can see them now; she has that much imagination. The tossing manes, the rushing hooves, the leap and the break and the charge. And then there’s nothing left and the water runs back down leaving the sand black with absorbency, black as the shadows in that one poorly-lit bathhouse near the gymnasium, black as Bella’s hair. Then the charge back up, foaming, ferocious, coming almost up to where she stands in her tall boots.

Her chest is ever so slightly tight, and it hits her after a few more waves that this is why poets are always saying beauty leaves one breathless. It’s as if her body knows just as much as she does that this moment is special, that the processes of her must still until she can be sufficiently quiet, until she can remember this moment until she’s three hundred: the light-spill and the horse-foam and the roar, roar, roar, like the breath of Leviathan, which is a metaphor she now understands, too[1]. Like she can feel its breath on her skin. Like she stands before something alive in a way that resplendent multicolored space is not, for all that it is the art of the gods, for all that she loves it. The sea is not space; the cat is not the painting.

And when she looks up! When she stares at the clouds, actual discrete clouds, it makes her feel as if they are standing very still and she is moving beneath them instead, as if she is watching the rotation of this planet in real time. And between them, empty blue, and how is it that she does not take a step forward and tumble forever into it? It seems more present and fearful, a more certain place to drown than the ever-moving waves. Perhaps that is why Poseidon rules all seas.

Iskarot will need to try to get her attention three separate times; she is lost in worship. Poseidon, horizon-strider, earth-breaker, glory be to you, who knows what lies beneath the deep places of the waters. You who delight in the armored hosts, the silver-scaled armies; you who tamed Leviathan and made the waters salt. To you I sing, keeper of what is known not.

***

[1]: like the best metaphors, Leviathan is entirely real. But don’t tell Redana that yet. She is very proud of her discoveries in literary criticism today.

It had taken all of five minutes for the cloaked and clanking enigma to scuttle back to the depths of Lakkos from whence it came. Leaving behind a pouting young lioness, and a not quite as young lizard, his dignified chin pouch wobbling as he shook his head in sympathy.

“Ahhh, you mustn’t take it to heart, young one. On the contrary, I’d say you did rather admirably, for a first try. You can’t expect those walking science experiments to understand pleasantries so easily.”

“Hmmph.” Vasilia drew herself up indignantly. “If that’s how you really feel about her, then I shan’t invite you to our teatime next week.”

“Can you imagine! What would you even serve them?”

“I’d tell you, but I’m afraid that would breach a sacred trust. Sworn to secrecy. Can’t say.”

Every passing moment he stared in silence made it harder to school the satisfied smile from her face.

“...wait, you’re serious?”

“Don’t look so shocked, darling. They’re really quite the pleasant sort, once you learn to speak their language.”

“But, I, just now - you were speaking our language...?”

“Oh please, you’re too much!” She giggled, patting him on the back. “I’ll only say this; you don’t walk around so obviously covered, head to toe, day in and day out, if you don’t enjoy the game of it at least a little~.”

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

“Ah, the winds! Who among us can count them, much less name them. Where they come, and where they go, only the gods know, and yet! We are all of us carried along by them. Never understood the saying myself, if I must be honest. Would we not find where the winds go, if we only kept following? And yet, there is always a stopping. Curious, don’t you think?”

We venture from unknown to unknown, farther and further into the Frontier, further than any have gone before.

“You know who I would ask if I could? Hermes. Obvious answer, I know, but that doesn’t make it any less right. Unless...no, if I really wanted to cheat, I’d say the gods, but really, I like to think we’re better than that. You hear tales of the poor fools who ignore the gods, but how many are there of those who think of them too much? There’s a literary niche there just waiting to be filled, mark my words.”

The gods, plural, have taken heed of our journey.

“The ant stores for the colony, the bear for the winter, the home for the homecoming, and what does Hades store away for? What notes did he write for the great Daedalus’ eyes only? If they found their way to pockets familiar, whose eyes would they reach next?”

Our away team seeks architectural curiosities from the time of Molech, or even earlier.

And if you’d like to join in this dance, I could do with a partner.

[Auto-success on Speak Softly: Vasilia wants to get to know Borin better. What’s their place on the ship’s hierarchy, and how do they feel about it?]

What is this feeling? Of unbearable tightness, like everything is squeezed too tight in her chest? She can't move, can't breathe, because to do so must surely shatter the illusion.

Because that's what it is. It has to be. She... She saw the wreckage! Felt the heat! Knew that the planet had fallen! She watched the ships burn, named the crewmembers on them, did the rites of the dead, for none remained on the planet to see Hades placated! This can be nothing but the cruelest joke to play on her.

And yet.

And yet, there it sits, as if war had never come.

She dares to raise a hand to the glass, as if by reaching out, she could grasp the planet, draw it close. Traces the lines of the continents, as familiar as the day she read them on the map. Tries, in vain, to see if she can't spot one of the armadas. It's nonsense, she knows. Who could have survived?

And yet, she finds herself smiling.

It cannot be. It's impossible. Nothing short of the direct intervention of the gods themselves could bring this about. A terraforming effort on this scale, a restoration like this! She shudders to think what the cost must have been. What world did Nero sacrifice to the gods to bring this about? What dread bargain the price for Alced?

And yet, there it is.

And here she is, miles away. She aches to be off, to see the surface. Is it possible that some of of her comrades yet live? That she could find them, reunite with them, share stories with them, reassure each other that yes, you made it, you survived! Share drinks, live, reminisce of those who did not!

She presses almost flat against the glass, her stare hungry for what she cannot have.

"Did..." She gulps, musters the soft words back into line, and turns a soft gaze on Epistia. "Did your mother ever talk? About this, I mean. About Alced."

Response Level 2
A stirring of the clouds reveals the moon, full and dominating the skies, far stronger than the distant sun.

Location Stats:
The Order of Hermes: The Order of Hermes is present here in force.
The Huntress Awakens: You are being observed, no matter where you are or what you do.

Redana!

Iskarot is patient with you, Redana. He, too, has had this moment, and he has not had it long enough to grow jaded. He folds himself into a seated position and for a long hour it is just the two of you and the waves. For a while you are three, as Hades seems to sit on the same shoreline alongside you. He is there for only a little while, though, coming and going without comment.

It is not he who breaks the silence. A Coherent patrol jogs along the beach in the shadow of their clanking MRU, billowing sooty and yet somehow spicy smoke. The soldiers are almost barbaric in how they appear - no gleaming metabronze plate, these are warriors with bare chests, shields of black marble, and cloaks of yellow and black. On full display are their unique bodies - some flawless fusions of human and machine, some simply biological but perfected, some abstract blurs of gears and blinking lights. It is pointless to guess at what they once were, these are creatures who have transcended their origins to make their souls manifest in physical form.

And they have with them a captive. An Alced girl, trussed and thrown over the shoulders of one of the Coherent like burlap. She squeaks when she's unceremoniously dumped onto the sand in front of you.

"Ho there, priest!" booms the Coherent soldier, saluting bombastically. "And apprentice! Lady Artemis has favoured us and we have captured a new recruit for the Order! The auguries say she has the mind for the Path but she's been nothing but bratty, so we're hoping you could have a word with her and maybe stop her from kicking us every step of the way."

"Put me down! You won't get away with this! Mirvan will find me no matter how far you take me!"

"Ha ha! Then we shall have two recruits!" said the Coherent.



Vasilia!

"Oh, of course! I'm actually writing my very thesis on the ancient Azura game of 'chess'. Most notable for the illusionary promise of advancement offered to the infantrymen - strive hard enough and they may be added to the sovereign's harem, though such a promise is rarely realized."

Pilate Borin happily natters away at the subtleties of the ancient wargame, though the basic principle remains clear. The king remains the king. Different Pilates attempt to gather favour that they might serve as the Magos' right hand but there is no realistic advancement beyond that - Birmingham works to keep his subordinates locked in contests so that they can never challenge him directly.

"But then of course the three dimensional variants come in, and suddenly the lives of the pawns become all the harder. Just try penetrating a layered defense when trying to avoid mixing up and down! Can't even talk to the referee like that."

As Pilate Borin talks, it's clear he's disgruntled with this whole situation. Not long ago he was playing the game with the best of them and was close to the centre of power. But then he accepted what he thought was a promotion into a diplomatic role. As it turns out, the only ambassador with clout is the one that talks to the Empire. Now he's almost been knocked out of the game entirely and he's fairly salty about it. He's annoyed enough to even make a play against the Magos if he thinks it's plausible.

"Ah, but there's not much to say about games when you don't play them, is there? There is a mingle happening tonight between all the senior players if you'd like to attend."

Alexa!

"The great muster at Ridenki? Of course. All of the daimyos of Ceron were there. Mengekai, Tharao, Thriss, Kai'yen, Vatemoral..." names from the songs of ancient soldiers. Nursery rhymes for Ceron children, the pantheon of Imperial protectors who roam the distant stars to keep Tellus safe from afar. Epistia's voice is almost singsong as she looks out at the planet. "Ruin there was to be found there, ruin cloaked beneath a mask of order. Ruin was the reign of Molech, ruin was the cast of his spear. In ruin was his true imperium, and so ruin was the one thing that could not be allowed to exist. Concealed within the hand of the Director was the love of Demeter, and when she raised it to the sky the harvest moons came in their dozens and all were struck dumb by their splendour. In the shadow of the moons the Director stood as the bridge between life and death, and in the light of resurrection the legions of Ceron swore their final oaths."

You have wondered what became of the Ceron Legions. They are not stationed on Tellus. They are not discussed in the Empress' military briefings. You have the mind for logistics and planetary campaigns; certain forces simply cannot move without enormous quantities of resources being deployed to support them. Even their shadow should be recognizable in thousands of ships leaving Tellus for reinforcement and resupply. Did those galaxy-conquering warriors really all return to Ceron to beat their swords back into ploughs? Did generals like Mengekai really accept exile from the centre of Imperial power at the mere word of Nero? Did Thriss never attempt to seize power for herself?

They have disappeared directly into myth. As someone who has disappeared into myth yourself you understand how that is possible, but surely not everyone is as broken as you?

Tell me, Alexa, of which of the Ceronian Daimyos you crossed spears with. Who were they? How did they lead their legion? Why would they never have accepted a quiet retirement?

Bella!

"We apologize!" gasped the Hermetic so fast that it felt like she was prepared to break into this begging at any moment. All the nerves come tumbling out in a rush. "Tell her majesty we're sorry! We aren't questioning her authority, or her histories, we'd never act against her - we're just trying to serve her better! We're -" the Pilate stops abruptly as Mynx puts her foot on top of her neck, gazing down with the same dispassionate and annoyed look.

"We're - we're chronomining for data," stammers the Pilate. "We intend to use the primary weapon of the Yakanov to gaze back in time and observe the Empress' activities during the invasion and reconstruction of Ridenki. We believe that the Empress is the closest living soul to Hermes, if she is not Hermes herself. We mean no offense! We only wish to understand her better that we might serve her better!"

She's not lying. You're aware that at least some of the Hermetic order considers Nero to be a manifestation of their goddess. While this operation probably isn't entirely a spiritually motivated duty - enough of the Order will just be out to collect whatever secrets they can find - at least some of them are genuine about it.

More from instinct than anything, though, you don't think that the Magos himself is one of those true believers. There's too much guilt pouring out of the Pilate for her to have genuinely bought into this plan.

The Auspex betrays no emotion. It does not flinch when surprised, or blink stupidly when it's overwhelmed. And right now that's a very good thing, because it means that Bella only needs to twist her head slightly and the fact that she is both of these things at once disappears into the faint shadows of the hangar. Her tail twists itself around her leg as her stance shifts uneasily into a closer and less firm position. She folds her arms across her chest, and her nostrils flare a little too sharply in the single breath she allows herself lest anybody notice. But the Auspex shines as sharply as ever, and that's what saves her.

Silence rules the loading dock for the longest of minutes until Bella finally wills it broken. Her steps feel awkward and overly deliberate as she crosses the awkward space between the treasures piled on top of each other, but she forces herself to focus on the rhythm and the soft clicking of her boots on the hard concrete. Good, that's very good. Give nothing away. She picks up a bolt of silk and turns it over in her hands several times without comment. Finally, she rips her claws through the soft fabric and tears it in half with barely a whisper of protest, and walks steadily back to the Pilate, who is still squirming underneath Mynx.

"I'm pretty sure," she says, balling up the tattered fabric and shoving it into the Pilate's mouth, "I told you not to speak."

She steps away, leaving the silk to its good work without bothering to secure it. She dares the Hermitician to defy her and spit it out. The smirk that crosses her lips is cruel... but calm. She turns away with a disdainful flick of her tail to find that her crew has gone and fetched her advisor without waiting for her to ask. Omn glitters and as it shifts and rotates its many surface structures with even greater polish than it had when Bella had tried to present it as a gift on Baradissar, easily a match by itself for the entire pile of bribes in front its gaze. The mice flanking it dip into a flourishing bow and retreat once more with a touch of the bracers on their arms. Bella nods, and mimics the motion across her fur. Silence is sacred to the Lanternites. Do you see, Pilate? This is what an act of worship looks like.

"How may I serve you, Praetor?" Omn's voice resonates across the loading dock with mechanical charm.

"I have a problem, Omn. Look at all of the treasures that the Order has laid out to try and buy my silence. Do you see them?"

"There is more arrayed here than may be safely stored about the Anemoi, Mistress."

"And after forking it over, this little creep is trying to bullshit me about their intentions!" Mynx-Bella chimes in. Omn pivots smoothly from one Praetor to the other.

"I can't trust a fucking word out of their mouths. Am I supposed to believe they're here gearing up to shoot their biggest gun at one of Her Majesty's planets out of the goodness of their hearts? Tell me Omn, is this a simple misunderstanding?"

"It is unlikely, Praetor. The Order of Hermes has a long history of defying the law when they believe the data is more valuable than continued goodwill. The nature of the proposed experiment and their initial overtures strongly suggest there are elements at work which they would prefer you remain ignorant of."

"You see my problem, then. These assholes eat secrets like candy; getting a straight answer out of any of them is going to take forever."

"And that's if you trust anybody but the Magos to even know. But he's pretending to be too busy for an officer of the Empire. You can smell the guilt on him from here. Prick."

"The nature of the situation is dangerous, Mistress. If we are receiving insufficient overtures from the Order, I recommend authorizing the use of the Ikarani adept. As an information specialist, she is well equipped to seize access to any and all hidden information aboard this station."

Bella is silent as she nods along with her advisor. She hasn't given the order just yet. But she makes a very deliberate point of turning and facing the Hermeticians gathered near her, so they can see the light in her eyes and the smile spreading across her face. The Auspex radiates a sense of power and control through her chest once again. Her tail flicks with the simple pleasure of a cat who's caught the bird she's been staring at all afternoon. She lifts her hand, as if to give another silent order, and uses it to toss her hair about instead.

Okay, Redana. What would a hero do? For a moment, she tenses, imagining drawing her sword and fighting off these arrogant hermetics. Except that she’s a hermetic, too, and also they’re all tethered to a MRU, and also her sword was shattered by the touch of Dionysus. She’s unarmed, on the same side as these soldiers, and also if she tried to do something stupid just to save a damsel in distress, she’d just end up squirming and helpless next to the Alced girl.

So instead she hoists the Alced up, trying not to stare at the sun gleaming off turquoise plumage. “By your leave, Magister,” she says to Iskarot deferentially. “I will share with her the joy of the Order!” With a nod from Iskarot (though perhaps a grudging one?) she carries the struggling girl further down the beach, until she feels she’s no longer in earshot. She’s still observed, though. The beach is very exposed, and Lady Artemis has been invoked.

“Are you all right?” Redana asks, one arm gripping her bucking feet close. “I’ve only been with the Order a short time, but hurting people isn’t part of our way. We’re about exploration, and discovery, and... you could see the universe if you joined us, and see places that are just as amazing as this! Although your world is truly beautiful, so I can understand why you wouldn’t want to leave, and from the looks of it, they got a bit overzealous. If I untie you, will you try to kick me and run for it? Because I will catch you. I am very fast. And even if I’ve had a lot more experience being tied up than tying people up, lately, I’ll figure it out! And then you won’t get to find out some of my real secrets.”

[Redana rolls an 8 on Speaking Softly. She’ll forgo the three question buffet in exchange for one answered interestingly and brattily: what can the Alced girl tell Redana about the Order’s presence on Ridenki, particularly as to why they’re kidnapping new acolytes?]

“It would be our honor to attend, Pilate Borin. What unforgivable waste of fortune it would be, to pass by another so well-studied in the Azuran ways.”

It’s games everywhere, isn’t it? Never so simple as one rung above the other.

“I have always wondered on the nature of chess; was it created for the harems, or were the harems created for it? Had there been no chess, would there be harems? Or would they have settled on another activity to satisfy their interests?”

How would you keep your subordinates in line? Wouldn’t you run games of your own?