"Ruin..." Alexa turns and takes in the planet again. Views it as it was--wreathed in flames, shadowed by Ares, stricken. Views it now, a verdent paradise, blue and green and teals. Quietly, decisively nods. "In the end it was, I suppose."

But it wasn't always like that, was it? Back in the beginning, when she could still believe in the cause. She could look at Molech and see the brilliant tactician, marvel at the sweeping ambushes, the precision with which enemies were cut down, and tell herself the cruelty was worth it. Planets scrambled to fall at his feet, without a single shot! They were making it possible to fight wars without fighting wars! Soon, warfare itself would be pointless, eradicated! And all she had to do was ignore the gnawing feeling that this was very wrong.

She was broken, obviously, if all she had to do was fit into the place that Molech told her to fit.

It was so simple. When she won, it was because she successfully carried out Molech's orders. And when she failed, obviously she'd failed to understand what he wanted.

That's part of the reason she never actually commanded the army against Thriss. Even then, back when Nero was a jumped-up nobody from a backwater, Thriss was a capital-T Threat. Her grasp of strategy, her ability to surprise, to plan and execute maneuvers, almost rivaled Molech himself. Alexa would go to comply with orders, and find Thriss two steps ahead in routing it.

(Privately, she almost suspects that Nero had to have gotten rid of her quietly. But no, that's what Molech would have done. Far better to occupy a resource like Thriss with conquering somebody else--with bringing others under the heel of Empire. Something to occupy that needle-sharp mind and keep her far from the capitol.)

Much better to fight Mengekai. You'd never find a general so willing to respect the rules of war, so rigid, so damn polite about things. It was never about the objective, about winning the day at any costs. Only with Mengekai could she demand single combat, a duel of champions, and find an agreeable, almost charming wink in return. He expected honor, and if it was found, would return it. For him, war was... Well, not a game. Not exactly. It was a messy affair, desperately to be avoided. But if there were no more battle, then where would he win glory?

Would it be strange to call him a friend? On opposite sides of the war, certainly, and they'd kill each other in a heartbeat if the war demanded, but also not entirely an enemy? It's strange--she almost wishes she could track him down, find out what he's up to, reminisce about all those times they fought each other.

Such an odd whim.

He can't have settled down--he'd never be able to sustain his troops, ply them with gifts to establish his own power, without a steady supply of plunder. Pirate, maybe? Would Nero turn him loose on the galaxy, let him play warlord?

And, at the end of the day, he's not Vatemoral, and thank goodness for that. Thriss's grasp of strategy was flawless, but you never knew what Vatemoral was packing or even, half the time, what they hoped to gain. The only universal was that it was going to be nasty, be bigger than last time, and involve an esoteric or two. They were playing a game, and damned if anybody else knew the rules.

That wasn't to say they were a bad person, but Vatemoral was the kind of person for whom the answer was less important than asking the question. They delighted in poking simply for the knowledge of what would happen when you did. Vatemoral is probably in an order of mysteries somewhere far from here, and Alexa is too glad for that.

Redana!

The Alced girl glares at you for a moment. She opens and closes her mouth as though about to speak but each time stumbles over the words. Finally, in an act of seeming frustration, she plucks three feathers from her right wrist. This seems to be a painful act from her, and the scar tissue underneath seems to indicate that these particular feathers have been pulled many times before.

She sets all three into the sand like nails, calamuses still wet with faint drops of blood. Then she clicks her talons - a scraping metallic click that sends a shower of green-yellow sparks. By the third click her talons seem to have actually ignited and she touches the ends of her burning talons to the end of the vane. Each feather flickers and starts to burn like a candle and the Alced girl shakes the fire off, fusing a few patches of sand into molten glass.

"Once, Admiral K'ten left on her canoe to pay tribute to the universal emperor," she said, though by the fifth word it was hardly speaking. Her voice was rapidly gaining strength and timbre, falling into a rhythmic chant. "And of K'ten's daughters she left behind Mas'ri, O'wouh, Ari'la, Captain Pth'na, Jadelis, French, and Admiral Katin. K'ten's daughters knew the currents and the tribes and they could sail for years without feeling the call of land in their bellies, and their flag was the sun drowning 'midst the waves. Their reign was great, and grew all the greater when Ari'la married Dandari from Second Fleet, and the two tribes celebrated their alliance with raids that shamed all the Fleets of Ridenki."

Boom, boom. She's sweeping her right arm over and over, the feathers clapping a burst of air each time they come down to the sand. Boom, boom. As she keeps the rhythm it echoes. It seems as though behind her stands a mighty heifer and its hooves stomp upon the ground in time to the wingbeat.

"Those days were the last, for deep beneath the earth the wolf Mengekalisk had woken from ten thousand years of slumber. At first when he was but stirring and lashing the sky with tongues of flame and soot the Fleets were confident, and they lanced him and struck him and sealed the volcanoes from whence he rose and all were merry. They thought they had his measure and thought that in time his wroth would pass and he would sleep once more.

"But Mengelisk's fury ran deeper than they knew, for he coveted Ari'la and resented her marriage to Dandari. He envied their love, he envied their canoes, he envied the might of the united First and Second Fleet, but even he could not break their power. And so the Mengelisk in fury sliced open his own belly and from it tumbled an egg, and from that egg hatched a golden rooster and named it Ne'ro - named it hunger.

"The golden rooster emerged from beneath the earth and his beak rose and fell with fierce accuracy. It splintered the ships Adelaide, Vladivostok, Remangrad, Saltzberg. With the hurricane of its beating wings it capsized the Brisbane, the Northampton, the Orleans, the Bristol. And as the Fleets fell back and reeled Mengelisk erupted forth from the world and with his burning jaws he devoured the Naples, the Seattle, the Roristok, the Zanzibad, the Modolusku, the Giza, the Logos. None could sate their hunger and the rooster and the wolf ate the islands bare and drank the oceans dry. In the end, though, it was the rooster Ne'ro who swallowed Ari'la and Dandari. Of course Mengelisk could not abide this, but the rooster clawed his face and chased him howling from the eaten world. Then, finally, content in his victory, the rooster laid four eggs in the sky and took flight."

There is more music now than just the heifer's stamping. Peacocks with beads woven into their glittering tails shake out a rattling beat, and a hundred horses march and snort along the beachside. The thunder of the waves rises and crests as the oars of canoes cut through it - one, ten, ten million, and all the horizons are darkened with the sound of breaking waves.

"At last, Admiral K'ten returned from the palace of the universal emperor, and oh did she weep to see her world broken so. In her grief she raised her spear and struck one of the rooster's great eggs. It shattered and spilled, and from it flooded all of the waters and scattered all of the islands and all of the fleets that had gone into it. And K'ten then packed her canoe with food and left once more, and once she was away from Ridenki she lit a vast cooking-fire," and here the girl pointed at a particularly bright star just becoming visible against the growing twilight, "to draw the rooster away." And here she gestures at a cockrel-shaped constellation on its way towards that starlit gemstone.

The feathers burned low. The beat of oars and hooves and beads fades and slows and drifts away. The Alced girl takes a long and deep breath, not noticing as Hera briefly touches her cheek in parting. Then her eyes snap open and she jabs her finger directly into Redana's chest.

"And you are granddaughters of the rooster who have returned to consume our world again!" she said. "See there!?" she points up at the Yakanov in the distant skies. "One of the great eggs has hatched and returned and it's as hungry as its father! Its servants eat everything, gnawing bark and swallowing stone and drinking oceans! You take Alced and you fill them with hunger and teach them to eat too! You tempt them with our own canoes, dragging them from the sea-floor and repairing them and offering them to the lords of the Fleets! You buy their silence and their slavery with our own birthright! The stars are ours, those ships are ours, and you say we can only have them if we fill ourselves with the same hunger as you!"

Vasilia!

"You're confusing cause and effects. Games are a response to conditions. As the Azura grew complacent success they diverted their passions into games of chance and strategy. Opponents became enemies - and their traditional enemies faded into shadow and memory. When the war returned their enemies struck the Azura like a cat leaping onto the game board."

The Pilate folded his hands. "As the board shrinks so do the minds of the players. By the end, the leadership of the Azura had shrunken minds indeed - barely able to see beyond the ambitions of their own pawns. I think things are very different since the Empress Nero humbled them at the beginning of her reign."

There's a moment of silence, and then a chime like crystal-laid dreamcatchers runs through the ship. Many ignore it, but some Hermetics change direction. Pilate Borin stands.

"Come. We have a party to attend."

Alexa!

If there's one thing every Empire you've encountered has been incomparably bad at it's parties. You were wondering if Dionysus was simply a fairy tale before Baradissar. Well, this Hermetic 'party' is no more likely to attract the Laughing God's attention than any other stale function. It feels more like an academic conference - a room dizzyingly full of bright yellow robes and hushed voices whispering to each other in a mechanical susurrus. Notes are shared and exchanged and adepts are constantly coming and going with papers - but there is still enough drinking going on to raise the odd voice in uncharacteristically normal laughter. The centre point seems to be a massive exposed window showing the planet below.

The Magos Birmingham is here somewhere but who could pick him out of this crowd? Though perhaps you had best get your bearing quickly, for you can see Lady Artemis mingling amidst the guests and her presence rarely omens a pleasant and quiet evening.

Bella!

You've never seen more abject terror and total obedience amongst the Hermetics - who are ordinarily a fairly servile religion already - than when you namedrop the Ikarani. The name runs through them like lightning and before you need to say another word every Hermetic is on their face in kowtow and humming a kind of whimpering buzzing hymn that expresses total surrender. Some Coherent runners leave the hall, and soon after Magi following Magi start coming before you to throw themselves on their faces and join the begging hymn.

Finally, a Coherent comes back. She's a different type from the ones you've seen so far - leaner, sleeker, with eyes like black gemstones flecked with brilliant orange. You don't smell any fear from her and you know instinctively you've reached the limits of where threats will get you - the red streaks on the collar, the veil of diamonds and pearls, the scent of power and command all say that now you're dealing with an actual decision making entity. This is someone who can make the decision to blow up this entire sector of the station if she must.

"I am Khitava," said the Coherent general, dipping into a kowtow - though the speed and power she puts into it makes it seem almost like a pushup, and one that she could lunge out of if she had to. "Prime Reductor of this fleet. Magos Birmingham begs you to visit him in person, Praetor."

Redana knows this story. How can she not? The great battles were always her favorite to read about. In her mind’s eye she can see the Logos holding fast between the ruins of the First Fleet, allowing the Seoul and the York to withdraw behind that sheltering curtain of debris, releasing lifeboats until the captain and his husband’s brotherhood stood alone on the bridge, the guns stilled and the prow splintered, until the Light of Autumn drew close enough for a full broadside. And it would be easy for her to shrug and tell the girl that it’s Redana who knows the real story. But she doesn’t. Because the story isn’t hers.

There’s something vital, something real, something god-breathed in the story. Something that justifies the pride of the Alced girl in telling it, that brings Hera to touch her cheek. Something that makes it shine in the same way as the best stories from Redana’s childhood, stories of imperium and struggle and virtue displayed in battle.

”And through the gaping hell revealed
Vatmoral drove their frigate spent;
To stop the mouth of hated kings
the burning spear on wings they sent—

“On wings of fire and plumes of ash
the lupine arms flew straight and true;
through star-made plate and gunning lines
they pierced the Adelaide full through—

“Until the Alced reeling fell
in ruin on the golden sand,
and Nero wept to see the work
done by her ever-loyal hands—

“For night was then on Ridenki,
the night and doom of falling stars,
and black the sea and black the sky
from ruin of the Alced cars.”

“...that’s how we tell it. Part of it, anyway. The full poem is very long,” says Redana, who once managed to remember an entire sixty stanzas for the Day of Liberation, to recite before the court. “We call Ne’ro and Mengelisk Nero and Molech. And there’s a whole war they fought through space, but you’re right that she was hungry, Nero, because she needed to feed many, many mouths, and Ridenki was a Class 9 Agriplanet.”

She takes the girl’s hand in both of her own, looks her in the eye (with the one she’s got on display). “And our version of the story has Ne’ro finally trapping Mengelisk in his own cave, and then she gathered up all of the humans everywhere and trapped them underneath her wings, until she decided that if she was ever to die she wanted another version of herself to keep humanity in her nest. So she made a, um, a golden chick, and locked her in a cage to keep her safe. But then the chick escaped and now is fluttering from star to star, trying to win a boon from the gods.”

The words stumble out before she can even think of stopping them. “And then a girl of the Alced met the golden chick, the daughter of Ne’ro, in disguise as one of the Hermetics who revere her mother, because if they found her, they’d call for Ne’ro’s hunting-cat to pounce on her and take her home. And that daughter thinks that the Hermetics really do mean well, they want to understand the entire universe, but also she’s worried about the way they’re running around with guns and those portable generators because they don’t have anything like that back home, and they’ve got some sort of temporal cannon up in orbit, and, Kindly Ones, what if they fire it?” This is well past the part where she’s actually talking to the girl. “Because the Alced are still here, and they’ve got a unique culture and their own way of remembering the Battle of Ridenki and why are they kidnapping people?”

Then the thought strikes her and she grins infectiously, finally focusing on the girl again. “Unless, say, this Alced girl knows someone who can talk to my mentor, the Magos Iskarot, and convince him to speak on your behalf! That’s perfect! Then we can negotiate a fairer arrangement for the Alced, and nobody needs to get kidnapped, and everybody who wants to join the Order still can!” And she shines like the sunlight on the sea, irrepressible and joyful at seeing a way she can make everyone happy. Right?

[If the Alced girl is willing to listen to Actual Golden Retriever Redana Claudius, that’s an 11 (with Grace) on convincing her to introduce Redana and Iskarot to someone with pull in the Alced community, assuming that she does not see Redana as the child of the devil and someone to punch and run away from.]

"Hmph. Another mouthpiece? At least he sent a pretty one this time. Tell him that the next time we have to do this dance that he should show at least enough courtesy to start with you. I've got better things to do with my time than play these stupid games."

Bella offers an insincere smirk, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the way her ears have reached full perk and her tail suddenly won't stop flicking. Inside her body, the Auspex sets off fireworks. Dozens of sparks burst inside her chest in brilliant reds, greens, golds, and blues. They pop and tingle with the imminent threat of a purr that she has to keep pushing down only to have it creep up elsewhere.

She is not so crass as to squeeze her thighs together here in public, but that doesn't mean she can't feel the rush creeping through her. It shows in the way her breath hitches just slightly, and the slightly glazed look that flickers through her natural eye which might otherwise be attributable to her wine. But not the way she licks her lips when the Coherent woman dips into her kowtow. She is so terrible at disguising her shifting body language that it might as well be another feint.

She takes a deep breath through her nose in the space she has to think. As soon as it hits her nose, she realizes that Khitava's scent will linger with her through the entirety of her stay here. The smell of soaps that linger under her robes tell Bella that this woman understands the true value of cleanliness. But more than that, more important than that, is her scent. This one smells like strength. There are sweet notes to her aroma and a vaguely earthen whiff mixed in with some of the more metallic tangs that she would have expected, which scream power at her.

This is a woman who is used to getting her way. This is a woman who is used to power. This is a woman who came here ready for a fight, and even after seeing the situation for herself her smell and the way her muscles tense so aggressively even in a posture of submission she still thinks that she's the superior specimen. Oh, that's so like her kind, isn't it? So proud of their augs and the shapes they've beaten their bodies into that they forget the power that comes through superior breeding. Not to mention... her Auspex lights up spots on her ribs, under her armpit, and spots along her back, and with them come another ripple of sparks that threaten to set her spine to shivering. Oh, wouldn't it feel so good to take this woman and tear her down, to pin her and show her where she really ranks and--

"What is your will, Mistress?"

Omn's metallic timbre startles Bella so much she almost jumps. She almost ruins everything. What she does instead is scowl and make a show of straightening out her jacket. She flicks the bells dangling at her hip to hear the chimes, and centers herself again before waving her hand dismissively.

"Forget about it. We've found our straight-talker after all. Besides, it'd be rude to reject an invitation from the Magos; might as well see how he wants to spin this first."

"Of course, Praetor. It is the Empress' preference to keep things civil, after all. But in the meantime..."

"In the meantime, nothing," Bella sniffs, "You're accompanying us: something tells me I'm going to need a translator."

Bella smirks, and gestures with no small degree of impatience for Khitava to get on with it already and lead the way. But a moment later she stops, and stretches her neck.

"Actually," she chirps, "Let's have the Lanterns oversee the loading of all this junk while we're away. Magos Birmingham can thank us for clearing up his overhead while he's explaining all the ways he's not a traitor."

“Thunderer, who crowns the mighty with glory and victory, hear us this day.”

Zeus’ temple was paved with none other than the shining hull of an Armada flagship, bestowed by the grace of the Empress for the good of her allies in Baradissar. Every day, servants wrapped head to toe in cloths polished its surface to a mirror sheen. No one was permitted to step upon it without a rigorous foot-washing, and to be anything but barefoot was to hurl yourself into the servant’s pits. When you knelt, no cushion or carpet came between you and the bond that knit together an empire, the Empire.

Vasilia touched her forehead to that cold metal floor, and at once nearly nodded off.

“Smile upon your servant, let all who stand in her presence know they stand before one who holds your favor.”

Focus, Vasilia, focus! Don’t falter now. Fill your mind with something - anything! - to keep from going still and stupid. Anassa. Anassa was visiting from Skollis. The first to make the journey in two generations. Guest of honor. Pay her your respects. Interests included raising goats, floral arrangements, and - rumor had it - local beverages of high renown and higher proof. Keep that last one in your pocket, wild card if you need it. Theonymphi and, and… (Sunlight Reflects Rivers Flowing North) Narcissa! Were no longer speaking. Direct them at each other for instant comedy and diversion.

“I offer to you an outpouring of finely aged spirits, and an outpouring every night until the moons are three once more, if you will grant her victory this day.”

You could not walk a block without seeing Markos’ face. His was the name on everyone’s lips and the face of their dreams to boot. He might fear loss, and turn to desperation if backed into a corner. He might think loss impossible, and any defeat a minor misstep from which he would soon recover. He might not think at all, and a greater gift he could not give her.

“And could you grant her a reprieve from Aphrodite’s charms, that she would stop trying to court her glaive? Honestly, she could do so much better.”

You! What! Clarisa!!!!!

The tigress in question (utterly unrepentant of the blasphemous lies she spouted in Zeus’ own temple!!!) finished her prayer smiling, and retrieved the beloved glaive from the shadow of Zeus’ altar. She threw it to her with an easy toss.

“Knock ‘em dead, Vas.”

Vasilia caught it with a single hand, and a grateful smile of her own.

“I’ll try not to; I still need an undersecretary.”

Half an hour to showtime. Time enough to drill the forms one last time. No matter what the riffraff thought of their love.

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

Bolin was their ticket in. At first, they did little more than hang about by his side, listening politely, making introductions where they could, and learning every name that passed back and forth. Sooner or later, there came the mutual topic. The knowing remark. The fellow appreciation. The timely joke. And they were no longer just at Bolin’s side.

One by one, Dolce marked off the priests they’d spoken with. One by one, they learned rank, they learned position, they learned respect. Symbols turned to information. Information turned to patterns. Patterns turned to currents.

In the right hands, currents turned to waves.

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 3 + 2 = 11. How might Vasilia win the hearts of all (or most) present?]

There exists a world where, when Alexa sees the viewport, she marches to the front of the room. Mounts the dais, clears her throat, and calls for attention. Yes, yes, thank you for coming, she would like to formally announce that the Pallas Rex is present and available for questions and/or vengeance, as the situation requires.

Because, yes, she's bad at parties. But she knows damn well what it means when the leader of a group holds a party with such a prominent viewport. It means that there's about to be a demonstration, a display of force, an execution, an object lesson. Something terrible is about to happen to Ridenki, and all the Hermetics are going to be able to see it in excruciating detail.

It traps them in visions of the past. They can't! The Alced have suffered enough! She can't let them bring the planet back to the way things were!

It's only the touch of a hand on hers that draws her out of her panic. And even then, it's not til she looks at Epistia, takes in the quiet concern on her face, that she realizes how abruptly she locked up at the sight of that window.

And she doesn't even have the words to explain herself.

She forces a breath, and then two, and carefully squeezes back. Yes. This is workable. She can do this. She just needs to figure out which of these nigh-identical coats has a Birmingham inside, get them alone, and make her case.

Courts. She can do this. Follow the patterns, watch who's mingling with whom, and find the one who's at the center of all the motion.

[Look Closely with damaged sense: 4,4,4, +0. 8. How could I get Birmingham by himself?]

Redana!

Cynicism is not a vice for the islands. One does not treat the words of elders with distrust, for their words speak truths about tide and wind and sail. One does not treat the words of the foreigner with distrust, for they come under the aegis of Zeus Cloudgatherer who favours travelers so that they might share their stories in distant lands. And besides, for a girl raised on stories, what easier thing to believe than the idea that she is in one?

And so the Alced girl nods seriously, with the thoughtful dignity of someone who has spent many summer afternoons planning what to do upon meeting an alien princess. "Very well then, hatchling of Ne'ro," she said. "I am Lacedo of First Fleet, sheltered by the Essex. I will bring you to the Captain."

While the two of you had been talking, the Coherent patrol had moved on. They were creatures of motion, after all, and if they could dump their cargo on a Magos who seemed to know what he was doing then that was sufficient for their purposes. Their clanking walker was visible miles away down the beach, the warriors but distant specks against the headland. Ahead of you looms the rainforest.

Tell us, Redana, of what it is to move through untamed life? What it is to move through branches and roots and snakes and tree sharks? How does a daughter of Tellus come to grips with this wild place?

Vasilia!

Perhaps it is surprising to hear just how frustrated the Magi of the Order of Hermes are with the demands of academia. And yet, so it is - the vast majority of those present, even amongst the Coherent, are priests and they are scholars and every one of them has a story to tell of bureaucracy, grant funding, and intransigent colleagues. These are scholars who desperately seek truth, wisdom and meaning and by and large they are fundamentally dissatisfied with the games they must play to accomplish that aim. To a soul they only seek individual power because that is the route within the order to greater knowledge.

They are, however, familiar with that route. They tolerate their dissatisfaction because they believe it is still the most effective route to accomplishing at least some of their goals. They believe the scraps that fall from Birmingham's plate are still more valuable than they would accomplish alone, and trust none of their colleagues to be more generous with data and resources than he is. But if that calculation ever changes - if they think they will learn more by the Magos' overthrow than by his reign - he will be gone in moments. And likewise, if someone gifts them a true secret of great importance, they will honour that person forever.

Alexa!

Even a social gathering is a thing of military force. The movements of the Coherent define importance; their presence expresses power. A figure may robe themselves but to cloak one's power is often to lose one's power. And everything about this event is an expression of power - so where is the one wielding it?

It takes a while to come to the realization that Birmingham is not a person - and perhaps not even a one.

The Coherent aren't guarding an individual here. They are defending infrastructure nodes. Glittering sensestone geodes, elaborate transmission apexes, even a column of heavy machinery swathed in robes you initially took for a Hermetic. Birmingham is a shipmind - a mechanical savant, a clattering machine intelligence the size of a building with the wisdom and knowledge of a mighty sage. Dozens of magi walk amongst his exposed brain, correcting broken thoughts and patching his agenda, and he emerges from the interplay of contradictory and ancient and morphing codes. Notably though, to the Hermetics this renders him no more or less than any of their colleagues.

Isolating him is, accordingly, impossible. He runs through different systems of the ship and can maintain half a dozen conversations at once. There will however be a vault where the majority of his intelligence is kept, and the doors to that vault will be no secret - simply walk in a circle around the central Coherent barracks and you will find it soon enough.

Bella!

A great rustle greets you as a hundred more Hermeticians fall to the floor in bows as you enter. The only souls who don't stand out to you immediately - Vasilia, Dolce, Epistia, Alexa - but of Redana there is no sign. There is a moment of silence as you are taken to a dias before a glittering array of wires, bulbs, and resonance tubes. Your Auspex identifies it as like the questing tentacle of an octopus - intelligent and undoubtedly part of the whole creature, but also extended from a central intelligence.

"Praetor," the voice has a deep, slow rhythm - the kind used by a creature born to a more musical language who must slow their speech down to speak to yours. "I am Magos Birmingham, Shipmind of the Yakanov. We long for compliance with the Imperium."

And still, the world lives!

This is a world with a functioning ecosystem, and this makes Redana smile, attentive to the life all about. Tellus had long since replaced its own ecosystem with sustainable infrastructure systems, and the heart of the Eater of Worlds had been a grand thief of many forced to blend into one. But here, here there is food in abundance, and life without measure.

She follows Lacedo’s lead and patiently waits for red-and-yellow serpents the length of her arm to cross their path, not out of fear of their fangs but out of respect. She sings back the songs of the birds in the canopies in their glittering lavenders and turquoises until Lacedo joins in with a voice as fine as theirs. She watches the tree sharks flit through the wisteria blossoms like fat, happy dogs and offers them the approving smile of an imperial princess: go forth with my blessing and know I have judged you worthy, you ridiculous things.

She is no stranger to sweltering heat; her jacket thins until it is a loose and diaphanous thing, a mere shadow draped over her body, and she sweats with careless ease. When they come to a cliff face that must be climbed, she takes to it with a will that surely surprises Lacedo, for her fingers are clever enough to find any purchase and her arms strong enough to lift her body with ease. Indeed, by the time they reach the top, they are racing— one that Lacedo wins, if only by a hand. Then there is laughter together, and a moment shared as they look out over the beach.

From here it is like a great bone bow in the hands of Artemis, set against the sun-bright sea. A sight that was denied her and all of humanity. A sight that one day would be open to all who dared visit Ridenki.

Only one moment breaks her delight: a low and rumbling sound from the trees. Redana reaches for a sword that is not there and puts her body between that promise of violence and her new friend. Golden eyes peer out from the dark branches, and Redana’s heart aches in her chest, racing and wild.

“Leaper,” Lacedo says, taking Redana’s hand, thawing those tension-locked muscles into motion. A tawny tail flicks as that bearded predator lazily watches them, trying to decide whether they are passers-by, intruders, or food. “Don’t turn your back until it is out of sight, and it won’t dare attack.”

But it will, Redana does not say. She will, whether I’m looking at her or not.

Bella can feel the fur on her arms and legs rising up. She plants her feet firmly into the ground, and she can feel her legs tense up until she could use them to reinforce the Anemoi, the muscles in her thighs visibly twitching under her pant legs. There's a breath caught in her throat that might be turning into a new headache and her heart seems to have missed a beat or two and now it's not sure what to do. Her nose pulls in all sorts of smells, which the Auspex labels helpfully, but her brain tells her are nonsense.

She swallows, and pushes everything down until all that's left is a very raised eyebrow. Damn it all, these nutjobs would put a shipmind in charge, wouldn't they?

"Her Majesty wishes nothing but good will upon the Order, Magos."

She sniffs, catching sparks and whiffs of glass and silicone where she wants sweat and pheromones. Her lips curl up into a smile as her body dips into a graceful bow just to fill the room with any kind of expression and body language. Her fingers grip her half-skirt automatically and pull it into a perfect curtsy that's technically beneath her station, but she's so far past caring at this point it isn't funny. Go figure that now's the time Mynx picks to act like everything is completely fine and normal. She rises to her full height and instantly crosses her arms underneath her chest.

"This is quite the party you're throwing," Mynx suddenly cuts across the conversation. Bella shoots her a glare, but there's no stopping her, "I assume this has to do with the experiment your Pilate told us about? He was, mmh, short on details, maybe you'd care to elaborate? Since you 'long for compliance' and all that."

Bella haughtily sniffs the air again. This is a mistake. Her nostrils catch a burst of raw Laser and it takes all of her willpower not to stop and stare. That dumb bitch is still wearing the exact same scent she was inside the Eater of Worlds. What did she do, bathe in it? Still parading herself about as a 'captain', for that matter. As if that was a title with any real distinction. They gave that role to Lorventi, for fuck's sake, how important could it really--

"Ok you're gonna have to break that one down a little more for me because that sounds an awful lot like you blowing up one of Her Majesty's planets and expecting me to be cool with it."

Bella snarls. Somehow she'd turned into the bodyguard in this scene; her tail flicks with annoyance. She forces her eyes back toward the dais and twitches her ears to keep them from bending too far toward Alexa and the wolf princess. Would it kill this asshole to project a face? Gods, isn't it just like the machine freaks to worship something so far gone from the perfection of humanity that it can't even look her in the eyes.

The Auspex pulses. The pain that ripples through her body feels almost annoyed. Its sight reaches far beyond anything a simple shipmind could conceive of, so stop condescending to her you useless fucking pile of spare parts. You only still exist by the wisdom of Empress Nero so stop giving her cause to question that decision! They all forget. How quickly everybody forgets out here in the sticks. Her Majesty should make annual pilgrimages to Tellus mandatory for the spacer classes so they would better understand their own significance and quit overreaching like the annoying little gnats they really are.

That's how you wind up with Ceronian 'princesses' in the first place. They really brought her? They really took her?! A wolf's as good as a cat to someone who only ever wanted a pet, is that it? Her eyes wander briefly over to her replacement and glare daggers at the awkward way she moves. There's nothing those arms want to be doing besides holding her weird, stupid scythe. Belligerent posture. Bad attitude. Worse breeding. And yet, the way she's speaking to Alexa is so...

She marks the sheep, and she scowls. All of them here. All of them here, but not the brat. And that meant they were hiding something. That meant an opportunity. She smirks and clears her throat.

"You know what? Just send an intermediary with the relevant materials to my ship. I want to review your, ahem, 'proposal' in greater detail before I sanction any of this blasphemy. Buuut, if you'd rather all of this dancing not be necessary, you could go a long way to showing your loyalty to the Empire by telling me about the guests you've let on board."

Bella's smile widens, and her voice picks up volume.

"Magos, were you aware of the kind of trash you've invited to yourself? Looks to me like you're harboring a bunch of wanted criminals. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you tried to keep me penned up on your loading docks so that I wouldn't find out!"

“And may our offering of skill and blood be pleasing to the great Empress Nero, first among mortals, who sits upon Tellus, first among worlds, ruler of the Empire, first among civilization. Let all who join blades in glorious combat forget not the most worthy names for which they strive and bleed for.”

Vasilia raised her blade, and dipped her head reverently to her opponent.

“To Tellus, the Empress, and the Empire.”

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

Tellus was a planet of fools, ruled by an idiot, and only a stupid person would ever want anything to do with it.

I mean, her? A praetor?! What a marvelous idea; vest all the power of Imperial authority in a petty, spoiled, ill-tempered, mangy-

“Dolce? Darling?” She breathed out a low purr. “Tell our friends not to worry. I’ll just be a moment.”

(Moments later, Alexa would feel a tugging at her finger - because the whole hand was asking a little much of him - and a soft voice would whisper, “Please don’t be alarmed, or make any sudden moves. The Captain will handle this.”)

Vasilia glided forward, feet finding the gaps of open deck between the prostrated forms. A quick ruffle of her coat, and a sudden weight in a pocket, spoke to her Dolce's efforts.

“Praetor, was it?” Vasilia lightly smacked her lips, as if trying to recall an unfamiliar word. Or as if trying to banish a foul taste from her tongue. “You must be mistaken, of course.”

About a great many things, but who had the time for such exhausting detail? Certainly not her. She was much too busy, making a trussed-up stray wait for her to climb the dais before she continued. Click. Click. Click went her unhurried step on the polished floors.

“The Magos cannot speak to matters that the Magos knows nothing about. His Pilates carry such scintillating conversation, that I simply did not have the opportunity to introduce myself or my party properly.” She bowed graciously, a single fluid motion that notably did not stray into an inappropriately servile curtsy. Imagine the embarrassment, making a mistake like that. While she was there, she laid before the dais an ornate vase, collected on their travels. (Made of a material that, in a pinch, could be shattered into a most excellent substitute for caltrops.) An offering to their host. “Would you care for me to remedy the situation, Magos?” And if he took her to be speaking of any other pressing, uncomfortable situations, well! She couldn’t be blamed for it.

[Rolling to Speak Softly: How can Vasilia get Birmingham to focus his efforts against Bella instead of herself and her crew? Result: 5.]

People are bowing. Why is everybody bowing? Should I be bow--

Oh, you cannot be serious. Of course Bella's he--

There are two Bellas. That's certainly A Thing. And for once, she's glad that she's far from her ward. It means Redana's nowhere near here.

She squeezes Epistia's hand and is incredibly grateful that Vasilia is drawing the fire of attention away from her. "We belong here," she murmurs as quietly as she can. "We have done nothing wrong, remember. We are just leaving, quietly, because we have urgent duties elsewhere in the ship. Is that not correct?"

Response Level 3: Patterns of Enforcement
The Order of Hermes sees the value of things - and unfortunately, you are now bargaining chips.

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.
Patterns of Enforcement: Investigative channels have opened from the Magos to the Order's forces; they will attempt to arrest any player character they encounter

Redana!

Even in times of total war, Nero tried for something better.

After this planet was broken, but before it was rebuilt, it was a staging ground for the final conflict in a galactic war. To oversee this battle Nero built a castle. Though it is squat and lumpen to stand against the winds of a burning planet, though its surface was made of scorch-black steel and stone hurled from orbit in prefabricated arrays into the heart of a combat zone, though any other ruler would have been content with a battle-bunker, Director Nero still had an eye for the aesthetic. Incongruously domed roofs, sweeping walkways and slender towers disarm the brutality of what is still nevertheless a building shaped by and for war.

It is overgrown now. The jungle has moved in, and with it, the Alced. They took this place in the end, bless them, and the tribe's warriors and maidens flit amidst the battlements. There aren't seem to be enough to occupy a fragment of this place - this place could house an entire Ceron Legion - but their presence gives this place a little bit of the loveliness Nero aspired to and fell short of.

You're not two steps into the gates before you're mobbed by hatchlings - young Alced covered in adorable fluff or the hideous scrag of pubescents halfway through their first molt. Soon after them are a number of very visibly armed parents who have their eyes not only on their young children but their adult children, many of whom are pointing, giggling and whispering as they size you up.

You're being pelted with delighted questions, interested glances and threatening stares. You're a visitor from the stars and one of the mythical humans of legend. It's not that you're not used to being the centre of attention, but this is raw and direct and not bound by any courtly etiquette. How do you handle it?

Vasilia and Bella!

The gears inside the Magos' voice emitter start to whir. Internal fans start to rumble and a tremor passes through the entire ship. The distant clatter-clack of a difference engine overclocking rises on the air and the Auspex floods Bella's body with adrenal responses as the only way to process how dangerous all of this is -

And then the situation resolves. Vasilia is not standing before you proud and free and defiant. She stands before you in chains, her words now the defiance of a prisoner. You can all remember what happened - Vasilia came before the Magos to surrender herself rather than to seek the protection of hospitality. You can remember it even as you are also aware that's not why she originally came here, that the act was some sort of non sequitur, that the Magos is almost certainly responsible for this - somehow. Both versions of events stand equally clear in your minds, and if the changes were less blatant you might wipe the former version of reality away as a strange moment of deja vu.

Only Vasilia is in chains - the rest of her crew remain free, though equally confused between versions of events.

"Praetor," rolled that deep machine-mind voice. "We long for compliance with the Imperium. As a sign of our submission we present to you this wanted criminal. As a sign of our submission we shall share with you all the details of the planned experiment. As a sign of our submission we shall beg for Imperial mercy, for we only sought to learn that which the Empress Nero, she who crossed the galaxy upon a thunderbolt, has left behind."

Vasilia, this is what they in the negotiations business call a bad sign. Birmingham is legitimately afraid of the damage Bella could do to him and his station - the Order of Hermes is deeply pro-Imperial to begin with, and the Magos believes Bella has both motive and ability to destroy him personally. He is focused entirely on Bella and doesn't give a single damn about you and yours, and the only way to get him to stop obeying would be to make him believe that obedience won't save him.



Alexa!

"We're - leaving?" said Princess Epistia. "We're not going to fight to rescue her? Our Captain is in trouble, Alexa!"

She's very plainly eying up the nearest Coherent warrior (who has noticed the attention and misinterpreted the signal, and so is flexing her muscles and striking cool poses with her spear). But you're up against Ceronian loyalty here - punching their way though anyone who threatens their leader is right up there with 'drink water when thirsty' as far as instincts go, so you'll have to talk sense if you don't want to start a brawl right here.

Oh, gosh. Kids! Non-human kids, even! That rarest of rarities! Back home, it was always just her and Bella tearing around the place. There was an... understanding. Peers would introduce unacceptable variables into her education and development; Bella, lacking a familial agenda or contact with any of Nero’s courtiers, was the only one Nero could trust.

So you can imagine Redana’s nervous energy, much like a dog suddenly presented with a baby. If she’s Zeus’s hound, that’s a close comparison: all overly-exaggerated delicacy and care with how she handles them crawling on her, like she’s worried one will jump into her hands and poke their eyes on her fingers, or she’ll step on someone, and then she’ll be seized by the Alced and thrown in jail for the rest of her life, which is a very very long time indeed, which is why she needs to make sure absolutely no harm comes to these kids. If a constellated dragon burst through those vast gates, Redana would attempt to suplex it then and there to protect the children.

This is the sort of place you’d expect to fight a dragon. It has the spires for it; the thick, imposing walls; the sense of secret and important things being hidden here for a dragon’s claws to dig up. This is the sort of place that makes Redana tense up for heroic deeds. The Alced can tell, and that’s why they have weapons and give her looks, wondering if she intends to steal some treasure from them, or declare herself their new ruler, or even grab babies and start eating them, having been some sort of baby-eating jungle octopus all along[1]!

So when Lacedo gestures for her to duck through into what once was the central citadel, she does her best to disentangle herself from the crowd, and only looks a little sheepish as she repeatedly sets children down and tries to thank them for their hospitality and, wow, yes, that is a rock, it’s a very nice rock, and, eeep, no, we don’t poke there, please, even if you think it’s simply hysterical, and okay, goodbye, goodbye, see you—

And then, somehow, miraculously, she’s inside, trying to adjust her eyes to a mixture of sunlight bursting through narrow slit-windows and mottled shadows. She reaches out for Lacedo’s hand on instinct.

***

[1]: being comprised mainly of carefully bundled tentacles to create the illusion of being humanoid. Your common-or-garden baby-eating jungle octopus isn’t nearly good enough at that to stand up to close inspection, though; even at a distance, you can tell something’s wrong, though you might assume it’s drunkenness or some sort of avant-garde body mod.

Gods, she's so young.

Alexa gently places one hand on Epistia's shoulder and turns her away from the Coherent, away from the image of Vasilia in chains. "There is more to war than attacking and defending. We are fewer than ten, and they number a thousand. If we fight, the brig gains some prisoners and we gain nothing. We can only help the captain later if we retreat and regroup now."

She takes a deep breath, fingers tapping restlessly. How to explain?

"Did..." She frowns. "Do the Ceronians tell the story of how Thriss stole Tharao from Molech?"

Molech was not the type to take prisoners. If he was going to take the time to house and feed you after a battle, it was because you had something he wanted. He might need to pick your brain, or maybe he wanted to give you a chance to finally see the light and join him.

It had taken a full season of skirmishing to take Hippolyta. And now that he had one of the Ceronian generals in hand, he wanted the other. Place the bait in a fort somewhere, let the Ceronians swarm in, and make a quick sweep.

That's what was supposed to happen. It would be simple, easy, and he'd have both birds in hand.

A season later, Tharao still languished in the trap, the bait untaken. And Thriss continued her guerilla opposition, which was entirely unheard of for a Ceronian.

Alexa does her best to skim over the details--Isty doesn't need to hear about all the mud in all the unpleasant places--and she's not the best storyteller. But surely Isty can see the point? By the end, both Tharao and the planet had been taken back, and none of that could have happened if Thriss had simply rushed the fort on day one. Right? You get that? So we need to go, now, while nobody is watching us, and come back once we understand what we are facing.

(5 on Talk Sense)

Bella's claw tips press into her temple as if to stop the rush of blood. She squeezes harder, and harder, and harder, until the only thing that keeps her from opening several small rivers of the stuff is the way her fingers slip off of sweat-slicked skin at the last second. Her teeth clench tight enough to be painful, and she forces the Auspex shut, as though blinding it could silence it, as if the source of this pounding in her chest was something in her sight and not...

"What... did you DO?!"

That bastard, that bastard, that sick fucking, tubes-and-wires, hollowed out bastard!! How dare he, how dare he, how dare he?! What did, what did he see?! What did he do? She snarls and hisses with unrestrained disgust. Her arms flex and her fingers curl like daggers. Her shoulders roll back and push her chest forward so that the already tight buttons on her jacket are strained right to the point of bursting. How dare he? How dare he?! Those are hers! They're hers, damn him! Don't touch them, don't touch them! Don't! Touch! Her! Memories!

"BELLA!"

She wheels around, startled by the sound of her own voice snarling at her. Her own face seethes at her, her own body draws closer until she's forehead to forehead with herself, circling, shoving, glaring. Her claws tense again, ready to pounce and tear and kill herself... kill Mynx. Out of the way! What are you doing, don't let him, don't don't don't DON'T!

"Bella." her own voice spits her name again, dripping with venom worthy of a Toxicrene, "Do NOT make me look stupid."

Her birth-eye widens in shock, until the pupil swallows the entire field of gold. She needs another breath or two, but then...

"You're right," she says, and nothing else, "You're right."

Bella takes a step back and turns away from the dais so she can run her hands through her hair with something she can pretend is privacy. Her breathing slows to tiny hitching shudders, and finally goes calm. Smooth. Controlled. At her back, Mynx offers Birmingham another deep bow-and-curtsy.

"Wine, Magos. We're appalled you haven't offered any. You made us stand by the docks and drink our own vintage, is it any wonder we're a little testy at the end of this long journey?"

"It's a poor attempt at hospitality," she agrees, spinning around again and matching Mynx's facial expression exactly, "Your other gifts and gestures are very easy to misconstrue without it."

"Her Imperial Majesty calls it the 'lifeblood of diplomacy' for a reason, you know."

"Share it with us."

"We'd heard the Order has conducted deep research into new compositions and flavors."

"Her Majesty wishes good will."

"Her Majesty wishes compliance."

"But Her Majesty requires beauty in all actions."
"But Her Majesty requires beauty in all actions."

"Offer this last boon, and we'll forget your indiscretions."

"Offer comfort and hospitality, and we will listen gladly."

"Just one more thing, to show you really care."

"We'll accept you're in compliance."

"We thank you for this... mm, lovely gift."

Bella turns toward Vasilia, and smirks. She sniffs derisively. But the Auspex glares coldly through the vagabond "captain's" defiant features, and her golden eye is dull and listless. Even when her smile breaks and she licks her teeth within an inch of Vasilia's nose to bathe her in hot breath, the act is cold and pointless. There is no joy in what she's doing, cruel or otherwise. She reaches forward and grabs Vasilia by the chin.

"We've been waiting."

"A long time."

"To get to talk with you."

"...Your crew seems a little shorthanded today, doesn't it?"

"What dumbassed little overcomplicated scheme were you planning on running this time, hm?

"It doesn't matter."

"She's not here."

"She can't protect you."

"You belong..."

"...To us."

[Bella is Talking Sense with Grace at Birmingham to keep him comfortable with the way this scenario is unfolding for the time being. 11]

“Come on, Vas, open the door!”

“Vasilia isn’t here! You disturb the seal of a tomb, and the rightful rest of the dead!”

“Who knew the dead would be so talkative?”

“Maybe they’d be at peace if robbers and tresspassers could leave their sepulchres alone! Oh, that the family of the deceased had only paid her grave the proper respects, that Lord Hades would keep watch over her eternal sleep personally!”

“Clarisa, move.”

“Alright, fine, you try talking to her.”

“Vasilia. There are five other ways I can get into that room, and I know you haven’t seen to at least three of them. I have my pick of the lot, and if you don’t stop this at once, I’m going to choose ‘through the front door, with a battering ram’, and you can explain the mess to your father later.”

“...”

“....”

“...Alethea?”

“Yes?”

“If I unlock the door, could you break it down just a little? Without scuffing the paint?”

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

“How was I to know everyone in the ring was in his pocket?” A Vasilia-shaped lump of blankets bemoaned to her guests. “How could I have even prepared for that?! For all I know, he paid off the bloody referee, and Zeus too! To...to look the other way!” She fell hopelessly into a fresh bout of sobbing.

“There, there…” Clarisa said, patting at the lump absently. “I think our fallen champion could do with some more tea. With extra sugars.”

Aletha stood from the bed, but glanced back before taking a step. “Would you like that, ma’am?” Vasilia nodded through the tears and a ferociously quavering lip.

As Alethea left for the kitchens, Clarisa pulled the miserable bundle of blankets to her lap, where she could smooth the errant hairs and shoosh the tired sobs. “It’s just-” Vasilia sniffed. Quieter, now. Smaller. “It’s just not fair.”

“Oh, Vas...” Clarisa sighed, taking her tearstained face in both hands.

“Life isn’t fair.”

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

Any Hermetic in the room who had made a study of post-Directive linguistics might learn a few new, fascinating adjectives in the hodgepodge tongue of Lakkos. Everyone else hearing the jagged edges of Vasilia’s vocabulary could get pretty close to the meaning anyway.

What a place of learning this was turning out to be! So many valuable lessons! Chief among them, that Zeus’ fabled protections didn’t apply to hosts zapping their guests with bloody eccentrics, apparently! Forget to update the rules for this millennium? Or were you too busy critiquing her social life?!

And don’t you dare answer any of that, Thunderer. If she hears one word. One. Word. Out of your mouth, she will rip these chains apart and beat you all the way back to your bloody useless Olympus! Then, once you’ve been beaten within an inch of your eternal life, then you can start telling her how bloody sorry you are!

Stop.

The chains strained to hold her chest at every furious breath.

Stop it, now.

A low growl built in the back of her throat, a snarl curling her lips.

You are Captain, Vasilia. Captain of the Plouseious, on a quest from Hades, your crew is watching, and we will not go to pieces before she does!

And then, it died. Her fangs retreated. Her breathing slowed, slowed, slowed.

When Bella finally turned her attentions to her, she did not return the favor. She sat tall, proud, unbowed by her chains, as if she’d chosen to be inconvenienced this way. The very picture of injured, (re)composed dignity, proud in the face of cruel fate. And cruel cats.

Only...less cruel than expected? A flicker of surprise broke through her mask, a slight arching of the brows, before all was still again. With everything going her way, she rather expected the cur would be making a meal out of this. Well, a bigger meal than she already was. Curious...

Vasilia resumed looking vaguely off in the distance, at more important things than this moment. She did not look at either Bella, nor away from either Bella, even as one Bella grabbed her chin and forced away most of her vision. Either would be an acknowledgement, and she was not prepared to surrender even that much.

“Given your track record,” Vasilia sniffed. “I look forward to seeing how this chapter of your life falls apart.”

Redana!

The Elder has a long stick with a crook on the end. The metalwork of the twisting head says 'symbol of ancient authority' but the way she uses it to hook around the legs, waists, and wrists of young children, smoothly picking them up and depositing them out of the way with the gentle firmness of a shepherd says 'grandmother' - and the shocking speed with which she goes through the crowd says 'martial artist'. Many of them squeak with delight when they're lifted up into the air by their collars but none of them dare rushing back across the field for a second try. Stories are filled with ancient martial sages and your heart tells you that this is one of them.

She wears dark round glasses, a necklace of shark teeth, and what might have once been a steel grey military uniform before it was turned into an arts & crafts project by a classroom of children who all had far too ambitious ideas about depicting her legendary deeds with cloth patches. There are a lot of crudely depicted burning ships and stick figure fights. The faded patterning on her wrist feathers suggest that there is likely a far more professionally done version worked onto her body - many of the Alcedi around here have elaborate curving oceanic designs dyed into their feathers - but the Elder seems content with the children's depictions.

She looks at you - well, tilts her head in such a way that you suspect she might be blind behind those glasses. Even so you get the impression that she's taking note exactly of where your hands are. "In the name of Hera, the First Fleet greets you and gifts you with twenty pigs and fifteen chickens," she said. "We also offer you the hand in marriage of Lacedo, rank within the Fleet, and an honour belt woven by Jain Ovardaughter should you join our war."

She pauses, and there's a silence of expectation. Try not to give offense, Redana.

Vasilia and Bella!

Machine Intelligences, for all their subtleties, are not people. You can almost hear the audible click and clunk of gears realigning - lulled into a different formation by the hypnotic swaying of Bella and Mynx. With threat assessment regulated again to a background process then its other processes begin to re-engage and normal operations resume all over the ship. As Birmingham eases, so does the hall full of Hermetics who - while still paying close attention to what happens on the dais before the viewport - also start to maneuver for position in the coming dance.

Alexa!

"Yes!" said Princess Epistia. "A heroic and daring rescue against terrible odds! You're right - inaction would shame my ancestors!"

Okay so it seems like the Ceronians tell a different version of that story. It's too late to explain the military philosophy at stake - already she's leaping into action, mark of Ares shining upon her brow.

And not five seconds later she's wrapped in half a dozen cybernetic tentacles by the Coherent soldier. Athena's eyes! This is why fighting the Hermetics is such a miserable experience - you've never got any idea what they're going to do before they do it.

"Hey, so, totally up to you," said the Coherent to Epistia, "but if you want, we can dance for a bit before I take you over to the Anemoi? I don't know a lot about that ship but from what I gather this might be your last chance for a while, hey?"

Wine is brought in abundance. Faster than blinking, the trays come filled with samples for her perusal and approval. Which ones do you like best, Praetor? We shall have the vintage sent to your ship. By party's end, the Anemoi will be a vessel worthy of hosting even Empress Nero's festivals. You shall never go wanting again, Praetor.

Here, this one is strongly acidic with grassy notes: it was made to aid in the digestion of complex meals. This one was developed for the rites of Bacchanalia; the sweetness of peaches compensates for the extreme tannin content and high proof, making it easy to consume large enough amounts to enter a trance state. And here, our meditations on the nature of wine. This was produced from fruit flash frozen and harvested within a single hour, this one was fermented while being bombarded with sonic waves to emulate the cosmos. We harvested star metals from the sea of space and placed them in the barrels for this one. And this one is...

Bella's eye goes wide as the liquid passes her lips.

"Flowers? This is made with... flowers?"

And indeed it is. A contemplation on the nature of gardens and growing things. The Auspex identifies lilac, lily, lavender, yeast, and sugars. It's sweet. Far sweeter than she knew wine could be. The chilled liquid slides down her throat with absolutely no protest, and sits in her stomach as quietly as water. In fact, it calms the other wines inside her. Her fur smooths out across her arms, her ears stand attentively atop her head. She licks her lips, and snaps her fingers.

"This. This one especially. Fill the ship with it. I don't care what you have to remove to make it fit, just do it. Although..."

Bella's gaze slides back to Vasilia. Her Auspex glares powerfully in the lights shining down from the ceiling as it absorbs everything there is to know about the other cat. Height, weight, muscle structure, bone density, augmentations, how long it's been since she's eaten. This time when she smiles, there's life to it. Her teeth are sharp and pristine as her tongue darts across them. She takes the tiny sampling glass and swirls it.

"We will not have it said."

"That the Empire lacks for hospitality."

"Drink."
"Drink."

Bella's talons are cold and crude on Vasilia's face. Her grip is strong as it is insistent. She takes the other woman's jaw and forces her face up, and presses the glass to her lips.

"Open."

"We don't want to ruin your, ah, party dress."

"Wealth of worlds, must be."

"This is a gift."

And she pours. The wine is sweeter than honey, and even the sharp taste of alcohol underneath it is barely noticeable under the sensations of tranquility and flower petals wafting on some sort of incredibly careful breeze. Both Bella's leer as they watch, waiting for the motion of the throat that means submission.

"You've got the wrong idea about all of this," she smirks, "You're not a brave, resisting hero holding out to see whatever miracle's supposed to save you."

"You're... oops, there goes another one! Your crew's looking rather, mmm, thin, don't you think?"

"You're a prisoner, you little dumbass. It won't kill you to act like it."

"Might kill you not to!"

"But now..."

Bella's strength is miraculous. She lifts Vasilia off the ground with such ease that it seems like she's lifting a child. When she twirls, the speed of it is almost dizzying. There is strength, and strength, and strength enough to crush anything, but if anything is scary about the display at all, it's how that power is being used to be so delicate. She places Vasilia deftly down onto her feet, still in chains, sets one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip.

When she looks up to take in her rival's eyes, there's only a hint of irritation there. There's a flicker, and it's gone.

"Now, we dance."

"This is a party, you know."

Bella dips Vasilia down low, leaning deeper and deeper until their heads are nearly touching the ground. Pressed as close as it is, it's easy to feel every curve and contour of her body. For all her power, she's not a thing of muscle and steel the way a certain Princess is. Bella is soft. From her fur to her curves, every part of her gives off the impression that she was tailor-made to be touched. Her sharply predatory grin feels wrong against that softness.

The music swells, and Bella turns her power toward dancing. Step, two three and, twirl two three, and lean two three, isn't this fun? Her tail lifts and curls with amusement behind her as she leads Vasilia off the dais and around the room. Together, they are a whirlwind of refinement. Slow and sensual, Bella parades her prey in front of everyone assembled. Here she pauses to show her trophy prisoner off to a group of Hermetics. There she spins just so, so that Vasilia's gaze can't help but linger on Epistia's captured state unless she turns her head and closes her eyes like a shy maiden.

"Still waiting for that dramatic turn?" she chirps and hands her cargo over to her opposite self.

"Still think this is gonna come crashing down on us?"

"If it does~"

"We'll make sure it gets you first."

"That's a promise."

Something so large and so heavy has no damn right moving that fast. When did she close the gap, grab that tentacle? How did that arm wrap round the cloak, pull the Coherent against herself? This is Birmingham messing with time again, right?

Alexa places one hand gently on the Coherent's shoulder and another clamps around her waist. "May I have this dance?"

"I don't--"

"Please." Alexa smiles, one of those smiles with too little warmth and far too many teeth. "I insist."

And they're on the dance floor. This is madness, the little voice in her head is shrieking. There could be any number of tentacles in that cloak--if a dozen are good, surely three dozen are better? And even if there aren't more, all the Coherent has to do is call for help, and they'll all be in the brig.

This is nice, though. And--

And Isty breathing is incredibly distracting. Every time they hit a particularly energetic beat, she huffs out, and it tickles a line of fire across her shoulder. And--don't look down, don't look, you have things to be doing that aren't considering how closely they're pressed together, surely? Aphrodite above, what she wouldn't give to dance like this without the Coherent's tentacles between them. Note to self, sacrifice something valuable when this is done. What does she own that could match this moment in price? Would Vasilia really miss her ship?

She forces herself back to the present, and offers a milder smile to the Coherent. "A pleasure to meet you. I am Alexa. You are?"

[8 on Hold Them Back. Deliberately holding off on end of action to give Coherent time to react.]

Redana bows low, one arm pressed to her chest, the other sweeping as counterbalance. It is the height of Tellus’s chivalry. “In the name of Her bride,” Redana says smoothly, without so much as a note of her fret entering her voice. “I accept your generous gifts, matron of the hall. But I cannot swear that I’ll join your war; I mean to mend it.” She straightens up, and does her best not to look at Lacedo. Are her ears red? They certainly feel warm enough. “I am Redana Claudius, daughter of Empress Nero Claudius and Zeus Stormbringer, traveling to the far ends of space by the will of the gods. I am the student of the Hermetics, but I have enough authority that they cannot disregard me, and I cannot listen to Lacedo’s account without wanting to make amends. Your culture here is wonderful, and I’m sure the Hermetics value it in their own strange way. I can arrange for a more mutual agreement to be made through my instructor, the Magos Iskarot.”

Self-conscious of the many eyes on her now, of the stillness in the hall, she runs one hand through her neon bangs. “I mean it,” she adds, impulsively. “The Hermetics shouldn’t be kidnapping anyone. They’re supposed to be stewards and archivists and technicians, not conquerors. And I can’t leave without setting this right.”