[b]Bella![/b]

Noise and blood and industry.

The world is a cacophony. Everywhere the screeching of power tools. Everywhere the disassembly of Heaven. Perfect lights are wrenched from their sockets. Ancient trees are pulled by their roots and dragged away. Ancient chains are shattered and terrified choices are made. Everywhere you around you the pounding of fire and claw and freedom. Everywhere around you the stripping of the [i]Slitted [/i]for parts. 

The [i]Plousios [/i]is in poor shape. The [i]Slitted [/i]is one of the most advanced warships built by the Endless Azure Skies. All around the warriors of Ceron and their allies wrench mechanical flesh from the bone and carry it away. Youth and beauty has died to renew age and experience. The dead are stripped of their armour. The father consumes the son. So it always was.

You are guided through the verdant mayhem of your Wolves, through the toxic plasma fires and nerve gas aftershocks, through the sack of Beri. You are wrapped in an Imperial cloak, thick and warm, arms around your shoulders as you are guided home. Your Empress shields you as best she can from the victory of the Legions.

[b]Ember![/b]

You return from the silent void to the howls of victory. The Wolves have fallen to pillage, in accordance with the ancient laws of war.

But even though victory is won, it is limited. Morale broken, the crew of the Slitted has retreated - but they are still twenty thousand or more. This is a populated system; they can be abandoned, and they will make their way back to safety - but they cannot be ignored without this turning into a war. The raid must be completed swiftly, lest their retaliation find you drunk, glutted and helpless.

You have authority here; you lead the van, and your rivals are still aboard the Plousios. It is your prerogative to determine what to loot from this vanquished foe, how to return with it, and how to announce your triumph. What draws your hungry eyes?

[b]Dyssia![/b]

You are swarmed by the Pix.

It might not have fully sunk in how much they have come to love you. You saved their species, you gave them purpose, you are their unifier and their leader. Much of the time they are professional and ferocious as their duty and nature demands, playful in their suggestions of overthrow, in their baits and barbs. But they thought they lost you and that has a way of bringing out people's true emotions.

This is to say: You are being mobbed by a thousand foxgirls, all of whom want to hug you and cry, and all of whom are prepared to bite each other for the opportunity. Out of the frying pan and into the [i]ζαχαρωτό Άδης[/i], as they say.

[b]Dolce![/b]

The Diodekoi has lowered her hood and taken off her mask. She makes no attempt to conceal herself again once you enter, still holding the wine glass she has been using to follow her meal thoughtfully.

In aspect she is a unicorn, one of wild mane and bladed horn. Her eyes, though marked with dark circles, are full of starlit intelligence. Her fur is white with coal black patches, particularly around her hands and the cascading hair that runs up her arms to her wrists. She has a sense of... righteousness, to her. Like she could kill the world and it would objectively be the world's fault.

"Enter," she said. Her accent was old, even to the ears of someone who had been on a backwater like Beri. Removed from her mask there was an edge of archaic formality to to her that hadn't carried at cross during her concealed persona. Not an affect, something that came naturally to her. "I would hear an explanation."