[b]Mosaic![/b]

Lenses in your eyes click and focus. You see through to the great [i]Slitted [/i]eye in the sky, through its observation window, to where the Crystal Knight stands and looks down at the world. You see her strength. You see her beauty. You see her fear.

She is armed in her full panoply. She has no luxuries, no distractions, no peers. She looks down like a weight presses against her neck. Her magi tend to her new weapons, marvels of crystalline technology - ludicrous overkill against a disarmed, earthbound planet. She shifts with nervous energy, far from her throne. Despite every instrument of power she still wonders if she has enough. She looks down. For her threats come from below. 

This is her strength. Her full iron fisted weight presses down upon this world, the perfect power of a tyrant in peacetime. Her machinery of repression is without flaw. Her generals fear her. Her security services are loyal to her. Every rival system of power has been undermined, civil society has been hollowed out, the people live in terror of the Skies.

The Crystal Knight looks down.

And above her, a crimson star.

[b]Ember![/b]

[Rolling a Get Away - [b]5[/b]]

Red lightning flashes and you come crashing down before the altar of the Engine.

The pikes of the Corvii have collars in place of speartips; they bind you from a distance, neck and wrists and legs. They pull back and charge the metal bands; they magnetize and snap together, trussing you throat to ankle. Putting their strength together, start dragging you towards a small black kennel -

"Wait," said an Azura magi in soft blue, wearing the tricorn hat that is the badge of the Azura technoarchaeologists. "She lead us right to the Engine. This is obviously an omen." She takes the leash in her hands and her strength is more than all of the Corvii combined as she pulls you close. "So what are you, little mongrel? A half-Ceronian pup here to steal my prize? Or perhaps a void nymph bound to the ship? Do you have secrets to barter, or shall I offer you up as a temple slave?"

[b]Dolce![/b]

"You talk a lot about perfection," said the Royal Architect. "But this is a dark and barbaric age and I need to be more wary of the clubs of brutes than the engineering of my peers."

One of his armoured soldiers takes your hand and presses a strange device against it. Strange lights flash, there is a painless feeling of pressure, and the Architect's eyes flicker and glow.

"Checks out, sir," said the soldier.
"Hm," the Architect sniffed and sat down in the chair, the third point at the triangle. He seemed strangely light, hardly sinking into the plush cushions at all. You feel like you could break his arm without much difficulty. "The Service, you ask? Some would say it is a degenerate echo of what was possible in previous ages, but I am wiser. It is simply an exchange of capacity for resilience. The ability to run a galactic civilization's operating system on DNA was a breakthrough for stabilization."

He leaned forwards on the table, gently setting down his tea. His eyes are fixed forwards, glowing, intent on the subject of his interest - even as the miracle glitters in his periphery. Machine awareness seems a dull thing, though 20022 is starting to shift like he might be noticing something.

"Consider," said the Architect, "that a galactic civilization's capacity to wreck destruction is likely to at any moment surpass its ability to recover from that destruction. The Spear of Civilization was a catastrophe but hardly an unprecedented or unpredicted one. For a while it seemed that humanity might have escaped the destiny of extermination it took on from the moment it split the atom, but Mars caught up with them in the end. Worse, the number of habitable planets in the galaxy was also reduced. Worlds in the Goldilocks Zone - warm enough for the liquid water required to evolve complex life - were shattered in great numbers. One war here, one planetary bombardment there - how long before the galaxy is rendered a toxic wasteland? In the face of the divine curse of war a civilizational response is required. I am part of that effort; my purpose is to reconstruct destroyed planets. The Service performs a similar but distinct function; to allow the continuity of government even in apocalyptic conditions. You have no conception of what has been lost, Synnefo, but you do not need to. Your role is to keep the galaxy from total brain death while the doctors work on curing its wounds."

[Roll to Keep them Busy]

[b]Dyssia![/b]

The [i]Sellarfane[/i] dives.

RVX-05 Assault Dropships are not meant to survive their landing. In ancient days they were as disposable as javelins; these vast and unadorned hangar bays were meant to hold the mechanical giants that were the swords of the ancients. The [i]Sellarfane [/i]has survived this long off the back of sheer fortune to never encounter anything that might kill it, but as the [i]Slitted [/i]fills the front viewport the possibility of that reduces exponentially. 

"Hope you liked the look of the planet, ma'am," said the Captain. "Because we might be down there for a while."

The glass bones of the augurs bounce wildly as the turbulence of atmosphere hits the Sellarfane. The augurs shout their readings to the pilots who pull wild maneuvers to avoid the gravity mines still in orbit. Less than expected - the path has been cleared. You pass through the glittering rainbow grid of satellite alerts lasers but Brightberry is in one of the pursuit turrets blasting a scrambling glyph into the network, delaying the reaction.

The [i]Sellarfane [/i]is committed to its dive, plasma torpedoes ready to launch. The [i]Slitted [/i]is not yet aware, but its awareness is a matter for the Gods to decide. The Gods are yours to influence; you are the Knight here, and they listen to your words before any others. What is your prayer, Dyssia? What is your bargain? Why should the Gods grant you the blessing of surprise in this moment.