[b]Mosaic![/b]

It's dark on the bridge of the Plousios. The massive window is heavy with coral growths which allow in only chinks of light. The place still drips with seawater, dying fish flopping on the floor, crabs scuttling, broken and corroded furniture. But there's something else here - a dull orange glow that radiates out from a pile of debris. You move some of the wreckage out of the way and -

"Praetor! Thank Ares, oh my lord!" sputtered a broken clockwork voice. If it had been a man, it would have been someone nasal, weak, and kind hiding behind a mask of educated sophistication and a walrus moustache. "How have I longed to see your face! Oh, the thought of you up there on the surface, making decisions without my advice - [i]frightful[/i]!"

The creature was, at its core, a sphere of orange plasma. It was surrounded by three ever increasingly large rings of metal set with lapis that spun and rotated like an orrery. The rings could also expand and contract until they were spheres around the central glowing 'eye', or anything short of it, and the machine used this effect to create expressions. 

"But - I know what you're thinking! You require a status update on your standing instructions. Well, I can confidently confirm that incidents of Kaeri on Lantern violence have dropped 78%. Standard of living amongst the Lanterns has been raised to reflect favoured warrior servitor status. Corrupt elements within the Lantern tribal councils have been identified and exposed, as have multiple spies and - oh, in Athena's name!" the machine intelligence cried in shock. "Praetor! I must inform you that the Master of Assassins is present aboard this ship! She could strike at any moment!"

[b]Ember![/b]

Merya has wasted no time at all integrating herself with the Ceronians who have arrived. In particular she has focused on the pack Biomancer, Thoughtful Flask. Flask is a poor Biomancer, more of a unit medic than an accredited doctor, and she's already wide-eyed at getting to listen to the sorcerer's discussion of her craft. Despite her relative lack of experience, Flask is still one of the most important figures in the entire Pack. She is the keeper of Arzm, the vast record of deeds and glory that determines which warriors will have their blood sent back to the massive cloning tanks on Ceron. 

The rest of the pack is watching the Magi cautiously. They don't know if this is friend or foe yet, and Merya swiftly turns to you as soon as you return from the Engine in infernal glory. "Oh, Ember, my good friend! As I was telling these terrifying warriors of yours, I'm your guest - but I can be more than that. I have a great many talents I can put to use for you and your kind -"

Even if she's not pheromantically communicating her fear, it's coming off her in [i]waves[/i]. She showed up expecting a pleasant stroll into a buried relic on a secure planet and instead she's found herself the prisoner of the Wolves of Ceron. 

[b]Dyssia![/b]

"You know, I've wondered where you were since before I can remember?" Vasilia asked. "An angel descending from the sky on wings of fire to deliver justice and destroy evil. Some part of me can't help but resent you for not coming sooner."

She folds in on herself and conjures a microsingularity. The main reason why servitors have such a hard time with the Rail is that they can't easily form the circular shapes required to best channel its energy, but the leonine woman moves with a truly impressive flexibility. 

"But a much larger part of me resents Mosaic for stealing my thunder," she huffs. "I spent years preparing for just this day but when it comes she goes and throws a mountain at a spaceship before I even got to use the technique I'd been practicing. And now when I do this -" 

She stomps on the sand. A massive pattern spreads out around her, a complex sequence of overlapping rings that glow with energy siphoned from the agonized [i]Slitted[/i]. The force rips gravity into a new configuration, making the mighty Plousios lurch into an upright position.

" - nobody will notice," she sighed. "[i]Nevertheless[/i]."

[b]Dolce![/b]

The Royal Architect looms ahead.

It is the size of a moon and the colours of a stained glass ewer. Ten billion glittering lights ignite all along its surface, the rhythmic pulsing of a tame thunderstorm. For all its immense size it is delicate, as delicate as a ceramic egg, and the smallest surge of Flux energy could shatter it into a trillion pieces. This is no battle station, no weapon of ancient terror; its support pylons are carved of gold, its projectors are delicate, its ten billion swarming servants are sleek and beautiful. It's a masterwork, a piece of clockwork machinery built to make and unmake entire worlds.

And it is surrounded by a fleet as lumpen and unlovely as any which has graced the skies of this modern age. Vast grey hulking warships surround it at in a wide perimeter. But even these ugly things arrive in glory; when the Architect turns its immense instruments upon the void it opens crackling and distorted portals, rifts in reality through which the chromatic energy of Poseidon pours. Passing through these gateways comes more grim escort ships. These behemoths are slow, almost turgid - no Engines fuel them, no great jets of plasma fire. Instead they are picked up and placed by another of the Architect's incredible tools, placing them into precise positions in its orbit in the manner in which a child would arrange toy battleships for play.

You have not been [i]scanned [/i]before - the high intensity pulses of light and radiation that cut through the shuttle's fragile metal and reveal the secrets of your bones. Spotlights from the behemoth ignite and track you, beams of light cutting through the void like spears, clearly able to turn lethal at any moment. On three occasions you are required to exchange ships and shuttles on your approach, a process overseen by more of the black-armoured soldiers, switching out with your original group multiple times. Strange gases are sprayed in your faces, strange tingling radiation baths, oaths of peace are sworn before altars, vast litanies of meaningless words are read aloud to you in case one of them might trigger an assassin's secret instincts. The process is less like security and more like quarantine. 

20022 goes through this with an unhurried and unconcerned air. He is deep in thought, and is too polite to carry on a conversation that risks becoming an argument. He has not so much accepted Dolce's decision as he has decided to wait until the situation changes to break the impasse. But he has evidently been through the Architect's screening processes before and feels no special wonder at this most wonderous of the galaxy's secret places.