[b]Mosaic![/b]

You cut as a God might cut.

This is no poetic flourish. To do anything as a God might is to enter the realm of the Divine. In a shining moment of aristeia you are no longer a ship buffeted by invisible winds and storms; you are the wind. You are the storm. You are outside and apart and you can see a galaxy with no empty space. You can feel the living sky, wet with the breath of Zeus. You can feel the fangs of Mars try to sink into the scales of Hera as they twist about, two enormous serpents, spear and shield. You cut but you wield a secret sword and it is not a thing of death, or war, or rebirth.

You cut instead at desire.

When you open her heart, words come rushing in place of blood. "Bored," they say, in the voice of Taurus, in the voice of Epistia, in the voice of Aphrodite. "Bored bored bored! Everyone is old, everyone is slow, everyone is inert. Nothing changes. Nothing happens. Nothing happens that I do not [i]make [/i]happen. I am young and strong, and strength must be used. To have strength and not use it is to rot. To become ingrown. To be unappreciated. To be unrecognized. See me. See me! See my strength! Let it change the world! No one else can. No one else will. It doesn't matter how. It doesn't matter as long as I can be myself."

This desire is not hers alone. 

Standing close by is Aphrodite, and behind him stands the dream of wolves. It towers to the heavens and the ruins of civilizations drip from its jaws. A colossus, the nightmare of barbarians at the gate, the yearning howl to crack the walls and blow your house in and devour the riches of empire. The words of craving spill from Taurus in a flood as she scratches at your shoulders, at your wrists, seeking even now to overpower you. You tumble together into a violent embrace as the desire of wolves soaks your breast and fur. It seems amidst this divine blood there is no space for the girl who was called Epistia - no space but what you might cut.

[b]Ember![/b]

You stare up at the sky. In the vast distance, past the clouds, amidst the stars your golden eye can see something burning. It glitters and focuses - a shape of thrones and trees, an empire in red and saffron. [b]Galactic Reclaimer Unit 04[/b]. A... brother of kinds. Something made by Nero's hands. You can feel it calling...

And then it's blocked out by Gemini's face. She puts her foot on Sagetip's unconscious back and stomps down, squishing her into you into the dirt. "Oh!" she said. "You bothersome -! Everything is completely off the rails now, and it's all [i]your [/i]fault!"

Every Ceronian is vulnerable to Gemini - and Gemini is vulnerable to Taurus. She pouts down at you, puffy-cheeked, loudly expecting your apology.

[b]Dolce![/b]

"Oh, I see what you are saying!" said 20022 brightly. "Yes, good show, you're thinking about simply pulling rank on the Crystal Knight. Unfortunately she quite effectively outmaneuvered me - she made a humble request for a few weeks delay, which is [i]prima facie[/i] reasonable. She knows that a digital intelligence like the Royal Architect is rather unreasonable and will disregard her reasonable request. This would grant her a legitimate grievance and give her a free hand to perform any of a dozen political maneuvers, dragging both ourselves and the Service into disrepute - especially if what was destroyed is valuable, which I believe it is. We could make some sort of power play against the Crystal Knight in this situation, or we could roll up our sleeves and use a bit of elbow grease to make sure that everyone walks away from this satisfied."

[b]Dyssia![/b]

The Publica.

Open revolution against the Endless Azure Skies is neither possible nor desirable. The sapphire knights of the Skies hunger for such an obvious battle, they crave it, they will travel across the galaxy to put themselves in harm's way that they might provoke it. It cannot be offered to them directly. They cannot be torn down.

They must be built around.

The core of the Publica is the act of institution building. The construction of communities, networks, the forging of a social contract. The Skies releases servitor species like an ancient Tallship might dump a cargo of pigs on a tropical island, unleashing an invasive species so that at a later date they might come by the island and harvest the results. Taking these untamed, fatherless civilizations and convincing them they have something to look forwards to beyond the butcher's block is a task for heroes.

You are sent to a world of twisted, nightmare forests. Biomantic beasts prowl in the dark, nightmares that keep isolated communities from coming into contact. After months of battle you assist in months of negotiation, negotiating the details of the peace treaties between monsters and servitors.

You are sent to the heart of a sprawling ecumenopolis, an industrial city-world in the core of the Skies. An attempt at unionization ignited a crushing backlash from the Skies, collapsing an entire hive-spire. Amidst the neglected ruins it was the red and white flag of the Publica that raised, offering medical care, reconstruction - and government.

You are sent to a idyllic landscape of white clouds and green hills, ground darkened as a crusade armada gathers overhead. The princess of this prototype warrior servitor species dared to defeat the Molten Knight in single combat, an outrage that caused the Skies to launch a thousand ships to remind them of their place. Through daring speed, skill and piloting you snatch the princess out from under their fangs, the entire crusade fleet turning to pursue you and leaving the world unscathed.

One mission translates into another, finding ways to connect a galaxy grown distant from itself. The Dust Knight travels with you, teaching you secrets of sword, rail and command. He is grand in his way, but he is old and his imagination is limited - an old warhorse who will default to violence even if there is a better way. He has much to teach you, both as an example both shining and abject.