[b]Bella![/b]

For a girl like her to think for this long tells a tale of continents and oceans, of the arrangement of galaxies and orbital mechanics. To think this long is to imagine the death of civilizations and the immolation of political targets on what might seem to others as a pyre of their own making. All revolves around the hollow of a sound, a place where text might go, an empty space that might be filled with associations.

She has to come up with something. It's a matter of pride.

"I remember I liked the name Bella," she said. "A pretty name. Bella! Do you think I could be a Bella?"

"That's not it, though. That's a seed, not a name to grow into. I think Vesper. Like the prayer bell. Like the evening star. Like Venus - like Aphrodite." She grinned widely, stepping back and spreading her arms to give you a better look. "Like someone Beautiful."

Purple eyes, purple robes. Feathers that fade from soft white into gentle lilac, giving each motion a sweeping motion and associated gentle press of air. Four thumbs and sixteen multi-jointed fingers, skillful beyond compare. A smile alight with sincerity, despite everything. Holding herself up through force of will so she can deliver that smile with everything she has, even as her words skirt the edge of blasphemy.

"Do you think the name fits?" she said. "Because I think it might fit you better."

[b]Redana![/b]

Each step you take gives the Princess the strength to take one more. Without your motion she stands as through exhausted, but the smallest forward movement you take she matches. She has given her destination but she cannot move towards it. She can only move towards you. Four legged you go together.

"Will -" she said. Hesitated. May I...? "- you carry me, noble hero? I have always wanted to be carried."

[b]Dolce![/b]

"Oh, but you don't comprehend the Art," said the ancient craftsman, with the sincerity of a teacher. "People can be tended, as can tribes, as can civilizations. Success or failure can be observed in the spooling out of their stories. Love can be condensed into a trillion parts in a drop of water and, from that drop, spin out into a civilization to conquer a planet, build an empire, to move the stars themselves. And yet in that expansion the tiniest flaws could extend to embody something broken or hateful instead. What a failure that would be! The growth of species must be as well tended as any garden, and the weeds must be plucked in turn."

"Consider Ceron," and here his voice had wistfulness, the envy of awe. "The greatest genius of the Art. The greatest love for an Empress. One could grow alone on an isolated world and still embody martial virtue in over ninety-two percent of cases, and three quarters of the remainder would still be suitable for support roles. But to grow them along the trellis, to control the shape of the wishes that develop in their hearts? Through culture and media, through songs and plays and movies, through the virtue of their champions, through the controlled deployment of Champion-strain enhancement to influential culture heroes? Deviation rates become minuscule. As a whole, they become a Varangian Guard beyond compare, loyal legions who can enact the will of Empire upon the galaxy. In tending to them, biomancers tend to the Empire, in tending to the Empire, biomancers tend to the Empress. An immortal gift, like the gods might give, true and loyal down through uncounted generations. What greater garden to tend? What greater love?"

[b]Dyssia![/b]

The Warriors of Ceron famously took the Grav-Rail from the Endless Azure Skies as tribute. Many of their warriors are armed so, some of whom have even sought to master the technique from enslaved Azura experts who were offered up in chases just like this. The Pix Huntresses are shadows of the wolves; they do not wield the Rail. When they give chase it is with traditional Imperial technique: With bow, with spear, with jetpack and with muscle.

The jetpacks are enchanting things, solid crystal fuel burn leaving glittering aftershocks. It gives them the speed and shape of shooting stars, carrying them just above the ground and giving them speed to match you on the straights. They are hunting gear, and fragile - if you closed to within five meters and struck with your ELF you could render the fuel drained and inert, the pack worthless until they replaced the fuel crystal. All it would cost you is becoming immediately encircled and attacked by all the others who wait for just such a moment. Bait, then.

As they streak ahead of you they menace but do not fire with their bows. Heavy solid projectile arrows are nocked but not released. One alone is worthless - you will rush through the cloud and recover in moments. They seek the battle rhythm, to be able to land shots one after another, a sustained impact of shattering sounds and overwhelming sights and scents, exactly six seconds between impacts to cause the failure of autosensory adaptation. The old Imperial way of fighting the Azura, rendering you deaf and blind from a sustained barrage until you lose all sense of perspective and direction and can be netted and yoked. In war, your household would protect you from the battle rhythm, shielding your body and giving you time to adapt and escape. On the hunt, if the rhythm begins it means your end. It also means if they fire and miss you might slip through their fingers altogether. So they seek their position, looking to surround and herd you, a glowing net of starlight foxes dancing around you in every direction.

It's beautiful. Flaming orange tails dancing in the night air, lit by white moonlight and the comet-trails of crystal jetpacks. The fire of your exerted strength against the cool of evening. The rushing blood of the hunt, primordial and deep. Fang and tongue and hungry mouths if you slip and fall. Glory if you should make it to that distant golden light. The goddess Artemis, scales of moonlight white, flying aside you on her rail, diving alongside you into the water, too caught in the moment to decide between predator or protector. A night for flight, and to be glad of flight.