Oh my gosh they're so adorable she's going to [i]diiiiiie.[/i] Look at them! Look at how serious they are! With their liddle helmets and their pointy ears and their stares! Oh, she wants to pick them up and squeeze their little cheeks and carry them under an arm like a purse! Ooooh, please let her take a Ceronian home. You know, like in that one book, but in reverse? Where like, the Ceronian demands a maiden be sent to live with her? Oh gosh it'd cause so many problems but can you [i]imagine?[/i] Just waking up, swathed in fur, or cuddling around one like a pillow? But that's not what they'd want, right? They're bristling with armor and spears and doing [i]such[/i] a good job of not wagging their tails, yes you [i]are.[/i] An entire hunt! A war-party! Twenty Ceronians, just for her! They've gone out of their way to move the moon and everything! Well, seventy-five percent of a Ceronian, so, uh, fifteen Ceronians, one Azura? She's read books like that one too, on the more fanciful nights of wandering the town. Gotta know where to look for them and cultivate those acquaintances, you know. So, obviously surrender is out of the question, right? Can you imagine? Everyone's gone to this effort, and she just walks up, bites the bridle, swoon, oh dear, I have been [i]captured,[/i] take me to the pleasure cabin!~ Nothing against pleasure cabins, mind! Or bit gags, come to think of it! Not her favorite, if that makes sense? They look pretty, right? Very aesthetic, very symbolic, the painters are gonna go wild. Because of course Merilt's made sure there are friggin' painters to see this. But bridles never feel good to wear, do they? They hurt to wear for too long, dig into the corners of her mouth. Is that because they're metal? Would a wood bit feel better? It'd have to, right? Which is weird, because in order to make it strong enough, it'd have to be bigger, or else she could just bite through it. Bigger'd be nice--give her something to gnaw on, in the journey in the plovers and who knows how long in the ship. They'll take it off in the ship, at least, right? Hard to do whatever a "salesman" does if your target can't talk? Right? Unless you just need them to listen? It's weird to focus on how you're gonna be gagged, right? But it--it's like an itch, right? But an itch on your brain, so you can't scratch at it except by thinking about it? It's just… bits are for animals. Chattel. Objects. They're [i]meant[/i] to hurt a bit, so you can control the animal. Pull on the reins, bit digs into the mouth, animal turns. Maybe if she submits, they'll give her a better gag? Something big and rubber, with some bite to it. Moon shining down. Brilliant white against her scales, swirling and swaying with every movement, begging to billow out against the night sky. Artemis stalking amongst the huntresses, tightening laces and putting fresh points on spears, putting fire in Dyssia's own veins. Dammit, this should have been [i]fun.[/i] This should be a night of skill, of challenge, of racing blood and bodies. The thrill of the chase, the fun of being caught, adorable vixie bondage! … She's not going to have a chance to fight that Guardian again. What is she [i]thinking?[/i] She should have run hours ago. Disappeared while they moved the moon. Been on a ship by the time the dressmaker came looking. Fuck. Just thinking of it makes her feel that little ball of tension in her chest, like someone's tied her lungs into a knot. Twenty Pix. Fifteen Ceronians. They could take the planet with that, and she's thinking how much [i]fun[/i] she could have with twenty pheromone-organized arrows pointed at her ass. Why didn't she run? It's not her job to save the planet. All she wanted when she got up this morning was some coffee, a bagel, and a mild dose of enlightenment. Mastery. Some fun. To sleep in. She could have run. Flown to the spaceport, bargained with one of the two shipmasters she hasn't alienated with listening to stories, been off-planet, and nobody would miss her. It's not like she doesn't hear them, you know? The conversations that stop when she turns a corner. The messages in taut eye corners and tighter lips. The weariness in masters who've tried. They don't call her the Distracted to her face--unless they're an [i]asshole, Salhadin[/i]--but they say it in any of a hundred ways that are so much simpler to understand. The Inactive Asshole. Hah! Nailed it. But she doesn't want to doom the planet, either? It's not her job to save it, but she likes to think it might be her job not to doom it? Does that make any kind of sense? It tastes hollow in her mouth. And it's not like she's even saving the planet if she [i]does[/i] surrender! Delays it, at best! Why [i]shouldn't[/i] she fuck them over like they're trying to fuck her? Because… No. She [i]will[/i] achieve mastery. The Pix [i]will[/i] be back. The planet's conquering--conquenance? Conquence? Conquest!--the planet's conquest is already an established fact, because Merilt's a [i]liar.[/i] But she can at least give them time. It's not her job to save the planet. But she's not giving up the friends she [i]does[/i] have without a fight, either. Ooooh, you fuckin' assholes. You're gonna get it, see if you don't. She had a whole plan in mind. She'd thought it over the whole time they were preparing her to be their sacrifice, you know? She has the heights, and she has the depths. She has a grav-rail, and she can breathe underwater far longer than any primitive fox body. Ooh, she could lead them a merry chase, to be sure. Over mountain and hill, soaring out of reach of even the most determined and athletic leap. Agile and lithe, carving through the ocean like a thrown trident and forcing them to get their precious little vixie fur ruffled and soggy. You want a meek, submissive little sacrifice? You want to get your blood pumping in a chase? Fuck that, fuck this, and fuck you. The second the priestess's hand drops, the instant she has the signal, she's haring for the spaceport. Because maybe she gets nice things by playing nice, but sometimes you just need to commit to the bit.