In a moment that is only for themselves, Skotos may be found at the edge of one of the hangar bays, even while Redana praises the Alcedi Plover pilots, reminding them that their skill, their prowess, and their courage may be necessary should the Azura seek a display of force, or worse. All eyes are on the radiant princess, save for those of Skotos, who looks out upon the violet shroud of space.

Who is to say what they think? They are anonymous, after all, a mere shadow. From the rest of the hangar deck, they are nothing but a faint silhouette against the shining clouds, the color washed from their robes. There is no one to witness Skotos reaching down and wringing at their own robe in silent torment.

Redana has well-considered opinions on the Azura, built brick by brick from lessons on history, theology, statecraft, milhis, and naval strategy. Can you imagine a princess who simply wished for a place where dreams came true? Where there was adventure in abundance, where you could see a new wonder every day, where the worlds and the people were strange and decadent and perilous? Tellus provided everything: true civilization, more wonders than could be catalogued over a lifetime, wealth in such abundance that she could have demanded something new every day if she had the courage and imagination to do so, and strength. Such strength. Even now, she is like a monofilament thread cast into the void, unbreakable and perilous herself.

Who can say what Skotos thinks? Does anyone care? How difficult would it be for them to slip away, to become another shade in the shadow of towers? Redana would know. Redana would not let them. Redana alone always knows where her Skotos is. But even she could not speak concerning Skotos’s dreams, if dreams they have.

She could not tell whether they gazed overlong on Manaemede, if the avarice of the Magi is awake in their heart, if they wish to walk among the glories, to be perhaps the last to ever look upon the trophies and masterpieces of the Shah, perhaps to even steal away something to be their own, just so that not everything of the Shah would yet pass from memory and being. She could not tell whether in longing they looked upon Igorthian, imagining Plover duels through that half-formed skeleton of a fortress, even as the storm raged all around them, each moment a test of their determination and prowess. Not even whether they dream of walking long upon the shores of Salib, of reclining upon the sand, their yellow robes indistinguishable from the shining shores, and waiting patiently forever and a day until some miracle was theirs to behold: the survivor of a crash washing up upon the shore, pursued for the medallion she holds tight to her chest, or some princess whose chariot breaks down, the result of sabotage by her disloyal servants, or a noble warrior casting her saber into the water with a despairing cry— and then Skotos could be pleased, knowing themselves a part of that story. Perhaps— perhaps even— they could—

Thunderous applause, like the falling of warheads on the desolate Saliban plains. Skotos wavers like the dream at the edge of sleep, a figure half-remembered. Bloodless fingers can for a moment be seen digging deep into the folds of the robe. They sway in the throes of an unwitnessed agony, and almost reach out, as if to ask Olean to wait— please— she just—

Then they are gone. Redana sweeps from the hangar, basking in the praise of her vassals, and it is haunted no longer. And of the torment of Skotos, no sign remains. Thus, it never was.

She stands in front of the garden with a rigidity in her posture she hasn't shown since the moment Empress Nero pointed her to the Anemoi and exiled her away from everything warm and loving in the universe in the first place. Her ears strain on top of her head, but they do not twitch or bend to chase after faint noises. The only purpose to it is to show off their perfect shape and structure. Her face struggles imperceptibly to maintain a mask of calm, polite interest, with her lips turned up just barely at the corners to prove her mastery of lipstick and the perfect angles of her cheeks. She does not move at all, not for all the treasures of the Endless Azure Skies.

Her hands are folded placidly in front of her just above her hips, with her elbows bent at an angle exactly like the manuals prescribed for optimal loveliness. It pushes and emphasizes her chest enough to notice the shape of her breasts without crassly calling attention to it, while at the same time her fingers curl around each other to cover her talons and claws just enough to show their uselessness without letting an observer forget that they're there. Her tail rests at the exact center of her back, drifting down her legs without so much as a swish until it curls at the tip to show how well trained her muscles are. Her legs are together, to prove her manners. Her toes are pointed out, to prove she's not uselessly meek. And the whole of her body is aligned along a single straight line, as if she were pressed against an invisible wall.

She turns her head just enough to turn her good eye on Beljani. She sniffs, and her lungs fill with the calming, muted scent of the air that only circulates aboard this ship. This single ship, and no other place. She does not let herself be surprised at how much that smell feels like home. She clears her throat with a single, clipped 'hem'.

There's an answer to that stupid question, of course. Why the Master of Assassins might like a girl like XIII. It's so obvious it doesn't even bare speaking out loud: someone must. Someone has to like her, not because she is likeable but because she is here, watching a perfect garden growing in the middle of her the perfect ship. If nobody liked her, then how could she be here? Why isn't she dead? And if somebody has to like her, why wouldn't it be Her? Why wouldn't it be the very first person to look at her and see? The kind, wise eyes that looked at her and saw potential where everyone else saw only a broken kitten hadn't lost their vision. It was as obvious as breathing, and only an idiot would bother asking why.

...It's difficult not to wish things hadn't turned out differently. If She had been in charge from the beginning, XIII would not have needed to break herself. She wouldn't have had so many hard choices to make about how to use the other assassins, or hold them all in check out of some misguided effort to spare Mynx's feelings. As if she had any to spare in the first place. She... XIII would not have had to do everything alone. She wouldn't have needed to turn the hierarchy of her ship upside down just to hold it together. She wouldn't have had to face Redana until everything was perfect. The Master would have seen to it all. Her plans were always perfect, it was said. And nothing about Her ever seemed to contradict that, not in ten thousand sneaky glances stolen across the years. The journey would be ending now, nowhere near this strangely beautiful nightmare painting of an empire where nothing made sense.

Her stomach churns uneasily. She hides her reaction with a slight squeeze of her hands. So careful not to let her claws touch anything. Her neck shifts just so, and the girl who had once been a Praetor returns her attention straight forward where it had always belonged.

"What does it matter?" she says with a carefully detached melody, "I am enough. Besides, that kind of decision isn't up to me anymore."

She closes her eyes, just for one moment. Her hands clench tight enough to crack her fingers.

In the end, the moment had passed without incident. The crew accepted his words as the words of a Captain. The meeting had immediately gone to questions of logistics, command structure, the hundreds of points of minutia necessary for a ship to fly painlessly. No complaints were lodged with his choice of words, posture, tone, length of eye contact with any one individual in the audience, plan, or even choice of coat. His desire had been achieved. He was Captain.

Victory ought to have felt a little less like a dishrag, wrung twelve times over.

A teacup wreathed in steam enters the dimmest peripheries of his awareness. Mynx was likely still close to hand. Somewhere. He hopes she understood the noise he made was meant to express a gratitude; the most grateful grunt he could muster. Words, he might not ever speak again.

Except that he would, in time. Captain was not a destination, after all, but a journey, and one he needed to walk a little further still. Past the Endless Azure Skies, drawing ever-closer to the Rift. Perhaps, if the gods truly did favor his ascent, the Azura would know more than they of the perils ahead. They might offer some fresh insight into its terrible workings, of how a ship and its crew might wisely choose their path through. And if he were truly blessed? He rested a hand gingerly on his chest.

Perhaps that might help him to navigate the aching in his own heart, too.

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

The Endless Azure Skies. The once-mighty jewel of an empire, fallen to ruin, the last vestiges of its power and people locked in an eternal battle for supremacy over the scraps.

To journey so far, and find yourself right back where you started. Was it a time to laugh, or to cry?

Mere weeks ago, she would’ve derided the lot of them for fools, let every sight pass unseen, and be off the moment they were able to. Today, she would do even better; no one expected an egg-carrier of the Magos to go much of anywhere, so no one would order her anywhere, and here is where she would stay. On board the ship. With a perpetually discomforting relic.

But to journey so far, and find yourself right back where you started...

Perhaps the streets of the Azuran empire would teach her what the road to her estate, to the arena, to the favorite places in the vast plains she once visited looked like. Could the warriors of the grav-rail tell her how she felt the day she first saw the perplexing scroll of alien forms in her family’s vault? Would a queen to this fallen empire be her best chance at finding her past, to grant her a wish for a future?

Vasilia would never know, as an egg-carrier of the Magos. But if she wanted to be a little more than that, she had a sacrifice to make, and an apology to deliver. One that would be far, far more uncomfortable than mystery relic eggs.

It is practically impossible to ruin a salad.

And yet, the kitchen is strewn with the corpses of salads past, like the aftermath of a particularly leafy battlefield. This one was too sweet. That one had too much salt. Too much oil. Not enough oil. Wrong kind of leaves. Grabbed the salt instead of the sugar. Croutons didn't complement the texture of the kale. Wrong dressing. Tomatoes chopped too large. Tomatoes chopped too small? She's never had to think what "bite-size" is for a god, and this has to be perfect.

Once more, she inspects it, scrutinizing it from every angle. If you make everything small, you sidestep the size issue, so in theory this salad should be perfect. Apples and grapes from the gardens, some nuts she's ground to fragments in her palm, and most curious of all, chunks of celery.

She pokes the celery suspiciously. Sweet, sweet, savory... water. And bitter water, at that. The acrid plant seems almost traitorous mixed in with its brethren, but the cookbook insisted it was part of the recipe.

The salad seems so lonely sitting in front of Apollo's altar. Should she have tried to make juice? Something to clear the palette after all that sweet?

"Apollo, god of servitors," she starts, "please accept this humble offering."

She's prepared for this. Thought what she wanted to say, how she wanted to phrase it. Written it all down on a card, memorized it, practiced the words in front of a mirror.

But now that she's here, at the temple, the words stick in her throat.

"I hope you like it," she blurts out. "I do not know whether you enjoy sweets as much as I do. Because…"

She sighs. "I do not know what I am. What I should be. What I want to be."

Can she even make that decision? Even asking the question imagines that it's possible to be more than what she was made as. But… So is everyone else in this ship, right? The Coherents were not created to be guards. Dolce's creators never imagined a chef as a captain.

"As we travel among the Azure skies, we will be among nothing but servitors. An entire civilization, divorced from humanity. They… They must have different ideas. Different ways of thinking.

"Please... help me to find a new way to think of myself."

Alexa and Skotos!

You have been sent with a simple task: to figure out what the deal is with the money.

This isn't something that can be done haphazardly. The Plousios is, frankly speaking, broke. It's scavenged what it could along the way and made what repairs and upgrades were possible but skilled labour only goes so far. What few valuables are aboard the ship cannot be bartered away to the sleezy dockhands or predatory moneychangers; the ship simply cannot afford to make a bad deal here. So you've been sent down into the streets of Pomib to figure out how the local economy functions and who, if anyone, is a reputable broker.

On the one hand, it turns out that was actually a really good idea because you've just gotten confirmation that the Azura at the docks were involved with organized crime. On the other hand, you've found that out because a couple of them are following you. They're trailing at a steady distance but their heavy frames and poorly concealed weapons would stand out even if there was a crowd to hide in, which there isn't. Your first team mission is in danger of ending in kidnapping and, given the Plousios' financial situation rules out paying a ransom, slavery.

You're not in immediate danger but you are very clearly being hunted.

Vasilia and Dolce!

The court of an Azura satrap is a curious thing. Part of you, a strong part, wants to buy into the simplicity of the Azura sumptuary laws and assume that power is simply colour coded; the bluest snake is the best snake. But there are currents here that make you feel like that assumption would be hideously dangerous.

The bluest snake is very blue though - and though that may sound flippant in a world where every colour is so tightly controlled, that means a lot. Satrap Vistica a font of light, with a dress that glows and agilt in gemstones that reflect and emphasize that radiance. In her presence everyone and everything seems drab and faded, not as an accident but as a deliberate extension to the satrap's own fashion style. The courtiers about her seem like the turbulence of cloudy skies and twilight mud, rendering that single glimpse of perfect noontime sun twice as powerful. Even the heat is controlled, with Vistica as the center of all warmth in the room, and the further you get from her the deeper you fall into chill.

This is no two bit pirate queen or planetary warlord. This woman answers to the Vizier, who answers to the Shah. She is justice, peace, and martial glory, exactly as an Azura satrap should be.

And yet the perfection of her colour is distorted by a group that stands at her left hand. They're deliberately at odds with the rest of the scene, so much so that they feel like an artistic rendition of a graphical glitch. They wear drab and dark colours in conscious asymmetry with the rest of the court, whites and blacks and even - scandalously - flashes of red. One of them carries an impractically woven ceremonial spear and none of them hold themselves with any hint of deference. You might have caught off-handed references to 'the Party', but what they are party to is a mystery.

Other nobles are in attendance, from the greater to the lesser, and the hall has room to sit or stand three hundred. Over two thirds are missing, though, their seats occupied by either elaborate abstract paintings of mountains and rivers, or brutal spherical Azura glyphs.

Already Redana and Vistica have exchanged ceremonial words and both settled into silence as their courtiers go through successively more important business. Right now you, Captain Dolce, stand opposite a curious middle ranked Azura senator named Thelis Thist who seems to be... shaking you down for money. For all the transcendent glory of the Azura throneroom this is an interaction that reminds you of your days in the Starsong Privateers.

"The damage caused by your scout to the glorious Boulevard of Pada, including the tremendous insult to the Shah and the Path caused by the erasure of the Tsolmis glyph and the near disaster that befell the Bronze, is intolerable to the Endless Azure Skies!" bellowed Thist from powerful lungs, hands held high in an orator's pose. She is addressing the crowd as much as you and you have no idea what the deal here is. "Foreign beggars have no right to access the Skies, for they bring nothing but destruction with them! You should fall to you knees and commit the I'tal thrice over before you are granted hearth and lodging here!"

XIII!

"Oh, I'm certainly not all that," said the Master of Assassins as though she could read your thoughts. Her actions were punctuated by the gentle click-click of her clippers working away on the garden, leaves falling in gentle cascades. "That's the thing about gardening, isn't it? One looks at the soil and thinks oneself mighty. Such tools you have! An arsenal of poison and blades and seeds, with years to plan and decide. And one's opposition are but insects and fungi and crows. How could I lose? But lose I did, and it's not hard to see why, really. I can go through the motions, certainly. I can apply centuries of skill and experience, I can re-use plenty of traps that worked before. But my greatest weakness is that I have options."

Her hands were so steady as those razor blades moved to sever the throats of flowers, sending a cascade of petals to the floor.

"For the insects it is, of course, life and death. But for me? I could go inside. Put my feet up. Look out at the rain and the mud and decide that I could just let this season go. Live comfortably, and all that it would cost me is a shabby garden."

She smiled at her eggplants, a single flash of gold amidst tones of earth and soil. "That is where you children come in. For you two this is life and death. That's why I'm not taking control, deary me no. I'll advise and help you however I can, but you, dear girls, are the ones betting your lives, and so I trust that you will have less tolerance for error than I do."

Outside of Redana’s light, Skotos is a little more present. The hair is rising on the back of their neck, even though they don’t spare a glance back at their pursuers. Indeed, in the depths of the hood, they smile. Fools. Fools! Skotos walks with the mighty Alexa, and therefore, there is nothing to fear.

(Redana had been somewhat preoccupied, and Alexa had been busy, and— between one thing and another, it turns out that Skotos is blissfully innocent of any withdrawal of Athena’s favor, just as it is likely Alexa wouldn’t know why, should the hood be pulled back, this Hermetic cultist looked a little bit like Redana if you squinted— the lank yellow hair, the girlish face. Though given that only Alexa knows Mynx’s game— besides Dolce— perhaps she’d figure a part of it out.)

Skotos follows Alexa, and their eagerness is almost palpable. Soon they will have the honor of witnessing how the glorious warrior defeats her foes. Who would not be allowed to want for such a thing? Who would not be allowed to thrill at the thought of witnessing Alexa’s strength, prowess and heroism in an Azura bazaar? Just like in the stories. Any moment now.

The Plousious’ contingent stands as a unified spectrum of cautious, faded blue. The gesture of ignorant foreigners who, nevertheless, strive to meet the customs of their host. The Order representatives carry their color as yet another shield, blending the new color with their old symbols in a way that both marks them as members of the crew, and further obscures their markings of rank. Standing aside from them, Coherents proudly display their blue hides and matching augmentations. A grand gesture, diminished somewhat by the several more ostentatious modifications that had been soundly vetoed. And at the center of them all, a little sheep, dressed the brightest of them all but still respectfully below the satrap, and a guard of honor around him. At his right hand, a lioness, politely glaring at the senator before him.

Out of all the wonders of this court, Vasilia standing at his right threatened to upset his balance every time he noticed. It was good they’d practiced beforehand, or else he might have lost his wits at the first hurdle. But his own words came to mind readily, for a Captain ought to take their own orders seriously: Senator Thist sought to entangle them. So, he would not engage.

Instead, he turns to a servant, the very one who’d shown them into the satrap’s chambers. “Pardon me, but could you tell me what she’s talking about?” he asks, making no effort to hide his conversation or its contents. “‘Scout’...is that what you would call a starship? Is she speaking of the Plousious?”

A good servant took care when answering a guest’s question, lest they complicate the business of the Master. The worst questions were the ones where you could discern no malice, and thus, the machinations you found yourself in were far more perilous than you could even imagine. But the best sorts of questions were the ones where you could discern no malice, for the question was simple, and the asker was curious, and no guile could possibly exist here.

To the servant, Dolce asks as he always liked to be asked; with refreshing honesty, and simple curiosity.

[Triggering Heroes of the People to auto-hit a Speak Softly, asking: What can they tell us about the incident Senator Thist is going on about?]

"You're... both of us? But this entire planet's Azura! It's not like any of the texts on Tellus say, there's a whole society here so powerful they'll shrug off Her Majesty's name like some bad dream! I, if we, if I do this wrong then I'll!"

The air around her squeezes her throat and cuts XIII off from expressing any more concerns. There's nothing wrong with her breathing, and yet. She can feel the sweat crawling across her skin. She can feel the sudden sting of air in her throat and the pressure of an invisible knife kissing her skin. Her ear twitches without permission at the sound of those sheers snipping another unsatisfactory flower bud from its stem, which pulls a squeak from her throat.

Her throat that is not cut. Her throat that is not gushing blood, and is in fact perfectly fine. But just for an instant, when she'd heard the final click of those clippers -- white hot pain. the sound of flesh tearing against a dull, insistent pressure. a hole where her voice should be. gurgling. gasping. blood. thick. oozing. sickening and horrifying. drawing vomit up into her final breath but there's a hole -- she'd felt her insides turn to lead all at once. Now they softened again, and her blood rushes into her face to fill the void where it had briefly been left behind. XIII does not move, except to bend her spine into a deep and apologetic bow.

"I am sorry, Lady," her voice needs several words before it stops sounding strained and reedy, "I was... being selfish. Of course you're right. Like you said, I'm out of time. But I can do this. I can bring the Princess to heel. And I will. Trust me."

The air sweetens with the scent of flower petals as she rises again, though this too is fleeting. By the time she's fully straightened out again she can't smell anything but the normal muted smells that made life aboard the Anemoi so tolerable. Maybe she had imagined all of it. The Master is smiling, implying nothing. The garden is littered with fallen petals, while hundreds more flourish up above them. The garden is beautiful. Had it always been here? Was this ship always this way? She can't remember anymore.

"...The only reason Redana's been able to make it this far is because I've been trying to spare her feelings as... a favor for how she treated me while I was an Imperial Pet. B-but at this point she's nothing more than escaped property. I'm done playing pretend for her sake. I'm done with plans she can slip through at the last second. I'm better than she is. I am enough. We are enough."

Her heart trembles as she finally uncoils from her polite and obedient stance to turn her attention fully onto Beljani. Her muscles twitch in anticipation of the hunt. Her tail lashes behind her like it's making up for lost time after a long imprisonment. Her dress clacks and sways in mesmerizing patterns that dare to mimic the starry sky. Her talons glint in the dull light of the Anemoi as she turns two mismatched, piercing eyes onto the Oratus Adept. Her lips curl into a toothy sneer.

"Don't you agree?"

Alexa is the very picture of the awestruck tourist. See her point, eyes wide, at everything? How she gawks at the ordinary, wonders over the mundane, admires shopkeep's wares as if they were produced by kings and princes?

Damn. Damn! There's no possible way she could have predicted it, but she still should have known! Should have been prepared for this! Should have realized that of course there'd be thugs eager to take advantage of new arrivals!

On the one hand, they have the advantage of unpredictability. They're newcomers, with no set pattern or destination. If they start sprinting right now, there'd be no way the thugs trailing them could know which way they're going.

But that goes both ways. They don't know the lay of the land, which roads go where. There could be an ambush or a funnel or something around the corner, and there'd be know way to know the corner was even there.

"Skotos."

And now she's here, with no support, and a starry-eyed Hermetic looking at her like she's about to pull a miracle out of her ass. Does everyone know who she was? Did-- No, Ramses wouldn't have talked about it to someone else, not after being so helpful and accommodating and instantly accepting.

Damn!

"Skotos, I need you to listen very closely. Good job not looking at them, but we are in trouble. We need witnesses in a hurry--people who will give them pause, keep them from jumping us.

"But if we cannot find that, you need to run. I will hold them off as best I can, but I cannot do that for long, and it will be for nothing if they capture you too. Get to the ship. Find M--er, Redana. Tell her to call me to her side. She will know what to do. Nod if you understand."

Redana and Alexa!

A quick glance around will not immediately make it clear who could help you. The most obviously armed nearby individual is one of the Bridge Guardians, an Azura warrior who is armed and armoured in the cultural equivalent of a main battle tank. They, however, are standing in the center of their bridge in a meditative pose and radiate overwhelming danger. It's genuinely unclear if its safe to disturb them for anything less than a planetary invasion.

So that's the military option; civilian violence is an entirely different matter. The Azura don't seem to have obviously marked police officers. They may not have any sort of formal law enforcement at all. You'll need to Look Closely to get a sense of who or what might be able to help you out here.

Vasilia and Dolce!

Even the idea of a servant doesn't function here like it does elsewhere. In other realms there might be silent groups of obedient slaves who watch and tend to their masters every whim, creatures of no standing and no power who do the domestic chores. Within the court of the Satrap that function does not seem to exist. The Azura who showed you in is one of the black dressed asynchronous group, a Party member, one with a quiet and professional intensity to her. She has some sort of power here too but her dress conceals it rather than advertises it like the aristocratic side of the court.

"A week ago a single-passenger spaceship bearing the markings of the Order of Hermes crash landed on Boulevard of Pada," said the Azura professional quietly. "The occupant, a feline-based servitor, survived and has turned Metis' Witness against the Order of Hermes for their disrespect for the Endless Azure Skies. She is currently missing but the allegations made by the senator are extremely serious. The damage itself is not in question here, nor is the matter of proportionate retribution. What the Senator seeks to prove and extract compensation regarding is the offense given to the Skies. This is a diplomatic incident as much as a legal one, and an oratorical challenge as much as a political one. Senator Thist has much to gain politically by prosecuting your party."

There's a curious neutrality to all of this, like Thist's politics are entirely irrelevant to the standing of this Azura and her Party. So many questions about how power is distributed here still, and before you've even got your bearings you are under assault by a politician looking to score some unknowable point against you.

XIII!

"Not in the slightest," said Beljani, voice somewhere between cutting and a whine. "We certainly aren't enough. Yes, you can break things, and yes, I can influence many people, but we don't know the first thing about this planet or its politics. We go in there blind and we'll wind up fighting the entire Skies and Redana will escape in the chaos just like every other time. Your ~emotions~ aren't the problem, Bella. Your stupidity is - that and the fact that you're trying to do everything by yourself. Let's just take the Ikarani Adept out of her box and get this over with."

Bella

Bella


Bella


The name rings inside her ears with the sound of grinding teeth. She hears it in a dozen different voices, the familiar and the not. The sweet and the vicious, the excited, the teasing, the reproachful. It pounds inside her skull with the force of a raging storm. Her tail flicks once, in warning. And then she's on top of Beljani.

"Don't call me that!"

They slam into the far wall together without a sound except for XIII's feral snarling. One golden eye glares through a trembling slit next to the pulsing crimson one beside it. The Auspex radiates pressure. Cold waves of raw Imperial might pour out of it in bursts of hissing steam as it touches the warm garden air, and every stab of pain is euphoric. Her muscles beg to flex and snap Beljani's spine in half like a toy. Her claw tips sing to press into the soft skin as they sit just above the artery where a single stray twitch would bath the room in hot, disgusting blood to feed the flowers with.

And if Beljani gasps, or screams, or begs, or laughs at the pathetic creature trying to threaten her it doesn't matter at all, because in the moment where XIII's fingers move to squeeze tight and feel the delicious sensation of another neck crunching under her power, she doesn't see the Oratus looking back at her. What... is this? Is this a vision pushed on her by her Auspex? A hallucination? Are these Beljani's mind tricks? Her hand won't close. She steps back from the face looking at her almost as fast as she rushed in to begin with. She turns on her heel to get away from the look in those eyes. The one trying so hard to watch her with understanding and sorrow even in the middle of the pain that... that Bella put her through.

XIII paces rapidly back and forth across the room without daring to look at either of the other women watching her. Her breathing is ragged as she reaches up to smooth out her hair, to brush the fur on her arms flat again, to adjust the straps on her dress so that everything would be perfect again. Her skin burns with hot shame, or maybe with some new kind of punishment released into the air by the Master. She doesn't know. It doesn't matter. Her fingertips smear themselves across a spot on her face where she'd meant to leave deep scars. From when she'd meant to die. But her skin is flawless, as ever. No matter what the name, she's as perfect as anyone could make her. And she's still failing.

She sniffs deeply before she turns around again, her face a fiercely determined calm.

"My proper name is Tredecima. 'Bella' is a word an idiot child pinned around my neck because she was too stupid to think about anything past what I was wearing at the time. I told you, I'm finished hanging onto useless old feelings for her sake. And I don't give a single fuck if you like me or not, but as long as we're working together I won't let you disrespect me like that."

Another moment. More silence. More staring. XIII reaches for her bag and pulls out several coins.

"And for your information," her voice is careful and flat now, papering over a layer of condescension she can't quite keep out of her tone, "Azura society isn't built around our traditional understanding of power. They use these... daric, instead. One coin is trade enough for a low grade meal, but the real value's in the ring right here."

She clinks the two coins together once, twice, three times, and her only coin with any dust in it transfers its stock into the empty one, instead. Her eye flashes with the triumph of somebody with the opportunity to for once in her life exceed the expectations placed on her. But her smile is polite and subservient, and she keeps her free hand tucked safely behind her back where it can't threaten anybody. She's learned, see? She's improved, see? There's no need to punish her. No need.

"This is their power. They broke the djinn down to dust and started using them as barter. One coin's worth of dust is basically just a party trick, but the more you've got... well, like I said. They're a people capable of forgetting how badly Her Imperial Majesty broke them, who've reduced us to some sort of outside curiosity. They're solitary to the last, and they all pursue whatever path they've dedicated themselves to until they're the best in the universe at whatever the fuck it is they're doing, no matter how pointless it is.

They're proud, and they're dangerous. They think and move in ways you've never even thought of. But if you catch their interest, you can work with them. And it so happens I was already doing that, you useless twit. I told you: we are enough. But if it's that much of a problem, whiny brat, then sure. Go ahead and yank the Ikarani out of storage, too. Who gives a shit if it's overkill? Means fuck all to me how many toys we have to break to put this farce of a mission behind us."

“You don’t have to worry, champion,” Skotos murmurs, their voice like the morning mists. “Beware humility; it is a vice. You do not need to hold back for their sake, noble one. If you fear reprisal, this one will swear to your provocation. If you fear endangering one in your care, this one will vanish and not be seen by them again. Show them your might, blessed of Athena.” Still, the cultist nods their saffron-shrouded head. An order is an order.

And perhaps, just maybe, they might still want to see Alexa toss around some rogues and scoundrels with those perfect, chiseled arms. To fight with fist and improvised weapon against enemies bearing weapons more threat and accessory than danger. These are the Endless Azure Skies, after all; getting in fights along the grand streets, scuffling with villains, and discovering the thread that leads one to an exciting story is the sort of thing that happens all the time here.

And Skotos is not allowed to take part. It is not Skotos’s place to wrestle again, to sharply rap knuckles against the street so that weapons go clattering uselessly to the ground, to pull carpets from clotheslines and toss them over an assailant’s head, to sweep ankles and crack jaws and dangle thugs over a drop until they admit what foul business they were sent on by some scheming vizier or wicked noblewoman. Therefore, Skotos’s only hope of being, in some small part, witness to that story? It is the hope that brave, strong, patient, fearsome, kind Alexa will protect them and be the heroine of that story instead.

Not that Skotos’s hopes are of any value. Not that they deserve to be any part of that thriller. Not that they may expect Alexa to do so for them. Not that they may even use the seal on one gloved hand without Redana’s permission. They are a servant, and Alexa’s will is to be their will. As she says, so shall they do, and their wishes are completely immaterial. This is what it means to be penitent.

Could it be…?

No. No, of course it couldn’t. If it were, the largest diplomatic incident wouldn’t have been a bad landing on a sacred highway. Just the nerves of his first diplomatic mission, making him watch for disaster wherever it might possibly lurk. No need to worry; the matter is an easy one. She is mistaken, and their innocence will be easy to prove.

Except…

Senator Thist continues to bellow, now going into the long and storied history of the street in question via anecdotes of the honored shahs who saw to its creation and glory. The stories are lovely, but lack much in the way of legal proof. Nor do they present much opportunity for him to speak. For the sake of some unknown political gain, she strives with all her might to pin a crime on people she’s only just met today. Could the matter truly be finished with proving their innocence? Would the crew be upset and hurt if their Captain raises only the barest of defense for them? So, ought not he strike back?

But why? Why does she insist on prosecuting them, when she cannot possibly be sure of her answers? Why is she so desperate for profit that she would attack them on sight? What more might he break by breaking her position?

And above it all, there stands the satrap. She makes no move to stop the Senator. But could she? Would she? Suppose she permits this. Suppose even that they welcome every guest with a mock trial, to test the measure of their cunning. There may be some larger game at play, and the straightest path through the halls of Azuran power may still hold some winding turns. To give even the appearance of responsibility may tie them up at once, if they speak incautiously. But suppose this is the only door that will ever be opened to outsiders? Could he risk everyone, their mission, his duty, on so treacherous a path? Should he, even?

A Captain would see the crew through this trial, and that was the simple truth of the matter. Why, then, did so many paths lay open before him?

At a wave of his hand, five advisors close in, and despite everything it is four more than either he or Vasilia expected. On instinct he awaits a sign from her, but she maintains a total lack of challenge to the four occupying territory that had once been hers, and that is sign enough. For now. Beneath the cover of Thist’s oratorical exhibitions, they share what insights they’ve gathered.

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 5 + 2 = 13. What are the stakes of the various paths through Thist’s attack?]

Blessed of Athena. That's a laugh, isn't it?

Surely there's a market here. Some public square. A forum. A bathhouse, even. Just let there be witnesses. Enough people, law-abiding or not, that the bribes and "no, actually you didn't see anything"s get more costly than the profit of kidnapping or slavery.

Scan faces. See who meets her eyes, whose gazes scan across her, who look at her and then quickly make sure they don't see her. Check on Skotos, make sure her orders are being followed. Subtly scan for the thugs. Look for businesses whose doors aren't shuttering before her eyes. Which way is the ship? Can they circle back? Check for Skotos. Check for thugs. Keep eyes on everyone and everything and hope that nothing goes astray or hides or is missed in the increasingly frantic search for something, anything that will keep them from the obvious.

[4 on Look Closely. Tell me about the people of the square. How could they hurt/help me? I find out the answer the hard way.]

Alexa and Skotos!

The difficulty with assessing a situation like this is that you have no idea what is relevant. The Azura overwhelm you with information that you lack context for.

Consider the ancient and withered Azura woman with a cybernetic lower jaw, dripping with cables, holding aloft an elaborately woven tapestry banner that would be the prize of any royal court; it depicts who you presume to be the woman herself stabbing a dagger into the heart of a star. How do you strike up a conversation with her? Consider the Azura with her tail coiled around a floating sphere as it carries her down the street, torso held up straight in a meditative posture, surrounded by flashing fireballs and comets that ignite flammable objects nearby. Is that person going to create more problems than they solve? Perhaps you want to try your luck for assistance with the Azura philosopher who is screaming existential questions at the top of her lungs at passing birds, and when they do not answer her she reverses gravity, launches herself seventy five feet into the air, and snaps them out of the sky with her jaws.

There are less strange Azura too, to be certain, this isn't a society of madsnakes. But some of them wear enormous hats, some of them are those eerie Party members with their divergent red-toned-black sashes, some of them look too young and beautiful to drag into this. They're distracting. They're opulent and proud and laden with meaning and each alien deed leaves you more and more uncertain. You can't tell what is normal and what is scandalous, you can't tell what the signs for danger and for safety are. And while you're busy staring, Alexa, you turn to notice that Skotos has been caught.

They hadn't snuck up on her across an empty square - the distances are too wide and the space is too open for that kind of stealth. Instead they've rolled marble-sized grav-spheres across the ground. Following some strange manipulation those spheres have rolled up her ankles and locked into place like a ring of pearls. Having done that, when now they move they drag Skotos' legs along with them, frog-marching her towards one of the abundant empty buildings. This, however, is not gracefully done - the Azura criminals don't have too much experience puppeteering bipeds and so Skotos is carried at a too rapid clip, limbs swinging wildly off balance.

Vasilia and Dolce!

The problem, as your advisors explain to you, is that you are irrelevant. The Azura are absorbed in their own politics, the intensity of which has done nothing but grow over the course of recent years. You represent a single starship, and perhaps an empire they considered buried over two hundred years ago. You have not bought them wondrous gifts, you have not bought destabilizing military force, you have not bought them anything they did not have or know already. Frankly speaking, you have nothing the Azura want. Even Redana's claim as an Imperial Princess falls on deaf ears here - to think you were worried they would seek to detain her for that reason! Instead you are but mayflies, primitives, barbarians washed up on the shores of true civilization without understanding a single matter of true importance. And so your fate turns on the only person of political importance who gives any sort of damn at all, a middlingly ranked Senator who can put all the bored contempt that the grandees of this place have for you into words.

This is a perilous state to be in. The entire machinery of the Skies threatens to turn on you for the convenience of it. What you need, what you desperately need, is some local political ally. Someone who can give a damn on your behalf.

The options for that, given your current state, are limited. You don't know who these people are or what they want. But you do have some clues. Thist's oration is, as you noted, light on specifics - this isn't a criminal trial that hinges on reasonable doubt. This means that she's seeking to gain status through eloquent speech and the content of the speech matters less than the delivery. In fact, right now she's in the process of tearfully accusing a hypothetical member of the audience of doubting her courage and sincerity and - oh, oh my, she's just ripped off her toga to the waist and she's got nothing underneath. And now she's pointing at each of her many scars and explaining at length how she received them in service to the Shah and Skies. And now there are noble tears of patriotic pride glistening on her cheeks. That's a flex of a rhetorical flourish. You'll have to give some real showmanship if you're going to compete with that.

That, or figure out something that you have that makes you more important than Senator Thist's political career. Or figure out a sufficiently brazen lie.

XIII!

The opening of the Ikarani tomb is a religious ritual of sufficient intensity to make anyone watching wonder, at least a little, if a mistake is being made.

All the ship's navigation charts - masterpieces of calligraphy and hand-copied illuminated diagrams of the galaxy - are piled up and set ablaze. When the fire is burned low everyone in attendance files past and puts a handful of ashes into their mouth. Then as a group you all mumble-cough-chant a prayer to Artemis as the Master of Assassins reads out the full, unambigious text of what she desires from the Goddess. For Vasilia, death. For Alexa, death. For Dolce, death. For Iskarot, death. For the Order of Hermes, death or ruin. For the crew of the Plousios, death or ruin. For Redana, imprisonment and subjugation. Her golden teeth glisten with a smile unblackened by the ashes, and her voice is no more papery or less kindly as she pronounces dark judgement on Redana's ill-fated expedition.

Death. Death. Death. Just like that. Despite everything that Nero - but the Master of Assassins has that right. When Nero took away the punishment of death from her Empire, that was no doubt because she had chosen to invest that power with her Master of Assassins alone. This was the only legitimate exercise of lethal force in the galaxy.

And then the Master steps aside and with the hiss and clank of pressurization ceasing, the doors open.

Violet eyes amidst the haze.

You are to keep chanting, but it's different now - now you're reading off a script provided to you by the Master of Assassins. Everyone here has a different one. Mathematical formulae. Names and dates. Descriptions of people. Information. Five hundred voices babbling random facts and details in a flowing and fearful river, a discordant crash of noise.

Not one drop is wasted. Those violet eyes watch with steady calm as the information pours in. Every word a hammerstrike against the marble, each chip revealing a little more of the transcendent killing machine underneath.

She's beautiful. Beautiful in the way Redana almost might be. Objectively, it's really only the blonde hair she has in common with the Princess - she's too curvy, too tall, too intense. But then those eyes flick towards you and she winks, and somehow the terrible mysticism of the moment feels entirely off balance and undermined.

Alexa bears down on Skotos like a landslide.

It's no use trying to overpower an Azura sphere with muscles alone--you may as well try to overpower a planet's gravity. They must at least limit themselves to what won't damage Skotos's--admittedly surprisingly muscled, for a hermetic initiate?--wrists and ankles, thank goodness.

But she can crush the marbles, grind the stone and glass to dust, scratch the runes to meaninglessness with her nails. There is no artistry, to it. No grace, no beauty, no subtlety. Actually, there's a refreshing element of simplicity to it--just smashing as many marbles as she can, as quickly as she can.

Alexa pulverizes another marble and wonders whether she should enjoy this.

[Overcome: 11.]

"Skotos, how do you feel about philosophers? We should talk to philosophers. Right now would be good."

What was it that made her believe in a universe without death? It followed her in every waking moment. It followed her into her dreams. It stared at her in every bursting nebula and twinkling star she had the misfortune to notice when she tilted her head too far up. It clawed at her skirts in every minor skirmish and fight, no matter how certain of victory she was.

The universe without death hadn't stopped Admiral Odoacer from killing hundreds right in front of her. It hadn't stopped Lorventi from casually offering it as a solution to unwanted ship guests. It hadn't even stopped her. So why? Why did the Master of Assassins make the air feel like she was swallowing needles? Why was her heart tripping over itself in bizarre beats to squeeze blood through her body like it was desperate to keep from being stopped forever?

XIII closes her eyes while she mumbles disconnected facts and figures through dry, crackling lips. No matter how hard she tries, her mind can't trace the image she wants. The dazzlingly intense and piercing eyes of Her Imperial Majesty Nero IV, so full of such obvious genius that it was impossible to disagree with her proclamations. And her beautiful smile that hinted at a heart filled with infinite kindness that made it impossible to want to disagree with her. All the beauty of Redana made fully realized and more mature than the princess could ever hope to be... but out here, she's nothing. A figure in a textbook to be recited at the Ikarani.

She is aware of the cold sweat dripping down her chin. It freezes her skin until her cheeks start to tingle with a disgusting clammy sensation, but she doesn't dare raise an arm to wipe it away. Her fingers clench around her script instead, and she winces as the sound of tearing paper fills her ears as if it were the universe ripping apart instead.

"Y-you're..."

And then, the most beautiful violet eyes she's ever seen look straight at her. And they wink. XIII's mouth falls open and her lungs forget how to draw in air. A drop of sweat drips off her face onto her hand, and in an instant her body switches from freezing to burning as her blood catches fire with embarrassment. Her filthy traitor neck won't even turn away so she can hide her reaction from the perfect information sponge with perfect detail recall.

"You're," her tongue feels smothered and stupid as she fumbles for the right (or any) words, "Beautiful."

Hotter. How could she burn any hotter than this, unless somebody threw her into a star? A jumble of other thoughts crash through her brain, and none of them do a fucking thing to help her. Just standing here in this room feels impossible right now, like the floor is constantly shifting under her feet with increasing speed the more she tries to straighten out and present a respectable impressive and desirable figure. All the blood in her head is screaming for somebody to catch her. It turns her face almost as crimson as her Auspex, but at least it finally pushes her gaze nearer the ground where it's safe.

"...E-everyone's talked about you like you're a monster or a bomb for so long I thought. Hrn, I thought you'd be... d-different. You got a name? You must. All the others do. What is it?"

She swallows with enough force to turn it audible. Every inch of her skin is crawling with embarrassment, but also with shame. Her mind floods with images of those beautiful eyes, watching her until they open so wide they turn glassy and unfocused. She sees the Ikarani twisting into a weapon that will crack the planet in half while crying in a melodious, all-too-human voice for somebody to take her hand. Then each vision is swallowed by darkness until she's no more real than the memory of Nero's smile.

XIII tries swallowing again, but her mouth has turned too dry and she only winds up quietly choking instead. Her fingers clench tight enough to jab her claws into her palms, and she shakes her head as if this single gesture could undo every mistake in her life that's lead her to this moment.

One thing is certain: she would regret allowing that coffin to open. She should never have agreed. Why? Why did all these Adepts have to be... people?

How wonderful, Alexa! The wonders of the Endless Azure Skies crumble into dust beneath those strong fingers, even as Skotos all but swoons into that multitude of firm arms. This is the shape of the story, after all: an attempted theft, a moment of danger and fear, tension rising, and then salvation. It’s as intense as a drug running through Skotos’s veins.

Can you feel them shiver, Alexa? How they shake and tremble against your stone! How their breath comes suspiciously fast and how, how Skotos leans on you as if their strength had left them!

“Philosophers are the most perilous of scholars,” they quote by rote. “Their experiments cannot be contained within anything less than the sphere of pure logic or the cradle of a world. They alone dare to camp beneath the shadow of Olympus and present their findings to the mighty ones far above, an act which is as much the enticement of the harlot as it is the unveiling of a painting.” Their voice is soft and easy to ignore. Go right ahead! Let danger drown them out. It has no inflection, merely a gentle monotony. “By the graces of philosophy was the Atlas Cultural Sphere raised up above all other cultures, refined and wise, and by the follies of philosophy did Molech bring it crumbling down upon his head.” They do not laugh at the unintended joke. “Philosophy, at its heart, consists of the proposition, which is simply as follows: that it is possible for civilization to more perfectly please the gods through a change in its fundamental principles, whether on a small scale or a grand one.”

They didn’t complain, so it’s absolutely fine, it’s not like they’re trying to make a point about the dangers of speaking to a philosopher, and that is indeed the next step that should be taken.

…but maybe Skotos should be carried over. Yes. Just in case. They’re already right here, Alexa. All you would need to do is scoop them up. It would be so easy. Practically effortless.

Disappointing. Disheartening, even. Was there no one here who cared for travelers from far away, in the midst of a journey together? Did they see no worth among the crew, save for that which Senator Thist could squeeze out of them in fines and political points?

No. No, perhaps just not like this, huddled in a dark court to attend to their business.

Every performer has the same weakness, dear heart, though we take great pains to hide it. Sooner or later, we all have to breathe.

“Your honor, I propose a short recess!” Dolce leapt in the gap between inhale and exclamation. “Perhaps I could prepare the collected assembly a meal, to show our gratitude for receiving us? We have survived for weeks on nothing but the meager supplies we carry, you see, and I’m sure we will all think better on full stomachs.”

Alexa and Skotos!

Philosophers, for better or worse, tend to have students. The primordial cultural tradition has endured in this strange new age, and a cluster of youths of all walks of Azura life are arranged about observing their mistress' strange avian lessons. She has currently returned a stack of half a dozen dead birds and two of her students are plucking them for cerulean feathers and hissing soft but melodic discussions on their teacher's lessons. One of the two is normal as Azura go, dull blue scales and a gylph mark button atop a flowing dress with slashed sleeves. The other has an array of six eyes and has polished her scales to the limits allowed by taste and decorum.

They have turned to stare at you when they heard the sound of you breaking the Spheres, and as you look towards them they become increasingly agitated that they might be drawn in, and are affixing and straightening grav-harnesses of their own.

Vasilia and Dolce!

Thist huffs with annoyance, and a senatorial aide rushes over to her with a fresh toga. She was just taking a breath to explain the long hooked scar on her right breast and from her expression she was of the opinion that was a good story.

"You may recess," said the Satrap. "But the business of the Court shall continue. We shall affix Senator Thist's speech in our memory and resume it when you rejoin us. The next hearing shall concern the allegations of corruption towards Senator Hysh."

And with a clockwork formulae, the Court rotates to face its next objective. The courtly etiquette is so ritualized here that even an invitation for everyone to break for lunch is not accepted. This is a serious challenge for a cooksheep, Dolce - you are no longer engaged with a high court but with a rival Housekeeper. No doubt your food is impressive, and your knowledge sufficiently exotic to impress the Court, but to get it before them on plates you will have to find whoever is responsible for this domestic engine and somehow seize control from them. This, then, is a test of your true abilities.

XIII!

There are no secrets before those violet eyes. They drink body language, intonation, hesitation, and every other tale of context in like rain upon the desert. Every chanted word and every half-filled statement is channeled directly into some vast underground reservoir, to fill and fill until the desert collapses into sea.

There's a moment of deep contemplation, and then she gives an extremely dramatic yawn, rolls back, and then leaps off her slab and onto her feet like the most motivated girl in the world hopping out of bed. "Haven't figured out a name yet," she said. "Have to derive that contextually! In the meantime, what I am is famished. Want breakfast?"

And then she's walking quickly, quickly, the pace of someone counting the seconds. Despite that, she keeps talking, rotating to face you even if that means walking backwards. And you have never seen anyone walk backwards as quickly or as effectively as the Ikarani adept. She's stepping over power cables and navigating the starship like she'd lived here a hundred years, even as her hands are clasped behind her back and that attention is still on you.

"You, though," she went on. "You don't look like you have a name. At least not one you're happy with. I mean, the way you said it - all the others do, like you're not one of us. Weird thing to say, because," her voice dropped precisely enough that you don't think anyone other than you can hear, "you're either fucking or are, like, body-fluidsly good friends with a Toxicrine given the strength of the antidotes I can smell on you," her voice switches back to its normal level without pause, "It's clearly not professional because nobody here seems to be treating you with respect, even though you clearly deserve it. I mean, you've got that look that people have when they've been carrying an entire event on their shoulders without support for too damn long. Well, I appreciate you, hot stranger!"

She stops, letting her fingers tap-tap-tap against the plasticy noise-dampening walls of the Anemoi. "Kaeri," she said. "You know, I'm like sixty percent Kaeri by genetic sequence? One of the dudes was chanting it, forth row three from the left. Not sure what to do with the information. Someone seems to have spooked these ones," She looks at you, and Knows. "Oh, that was you too? Double hot. Whatever you did to them, you don't need to do it to me, I'm a good girl, all disciplining is strictly recreational. Can you braid my hair? I feel like I need braids. I get the vibe I'm reminding you of someone and if I'm going to be beautiful I want to do it on my own merits. Hey, how's Beautiful for a name? It's basically the first thing you said to me, right?"

She abruptly stops, tilting her head from side to side. "Too much, too fast. Got it. I'll shut up for a bit. You talk, I'll cook." And with that she swings herself into the kitchen.