[b]Alexa and Skotos![/b]

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.

[b]Vasilia and Dolce![/b]

Thist [i]huffs[/i] 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. 

[b]XIII![/b]

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 [i]famished[/i]. 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 [i]never[/i] 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 [i]attention[/i] is still on you. 

"[i]You[/i], 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 - [i]all the others do[/i], 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 [i]look[/i] that people have when they've been carrying an entire [i]event[/i] on their shoulders without support for too damn long. Well, [i]I[/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.