Once again, Ember floats in the beautiful, awe-inspiring void. In the face of Poseidon’s domain, to cling to the ego is to be destroyed.

Plundering Fang could not do this; she would be thrashing like a worm on a hook, trying to challenge Poseidon just to regain her control over herself and her world. Sagetip could not do this; she would be in her own head, unable to respond to the majesty of the void with the appropriate awe.

Not that Ember can completely escape her thoughts, and this is by design. Whenever she tries to move her limbs, the chain pulls taut, pulling her out of being lost in the majesty of the storm, just enough to keep her thoughts from floating away.

Now. As to the Angelshark. She cannot exactly speak to it— and, indeed, the regalia stops her from even trying. You cannot communicate with a beast so vast, so alien, using words. You cannot use scents, either— this silences her just as strictly as the wadded-up cloth on her tongue[1]. There is only—

[i]dancing in a perilous garden, wearing triangles of silk, Mos— Bella’s eyes on her, drinking her in, hungry, and her mouth full of packscent, her mouth hidden, all this has happened before—[/i]

body language. And here, too, Ember is trained; she was once a scout, and a scout must know how her body speaks, must be ready to seduce their way into information or out of peril, must know what movements will give them away as a daughter of Ceron.

Even to an Angelshark, she knows how to lie.

Her panicked screams are more seen in how she struggles, how she closes her eyes, how she strains against the well-secured cloth, as if she could make herself heard across the vast gulf. She waggles her feet as if trying to paddle towards the approaching vessel, vainly, desperately. A toss of the head, a glance back over her shoulder, eyes wide. She needs a hero to come and save her from this monster—

And the name of this hero is [i]Liquid Bronze.[/i] This is what she says with her tearful, pleading glances into the far distance; this is what the waggling of her shoulders says, as if thrashing from side to side would make the chains about her come undone[2].

Be jealous, beautiful shark. The princess is yours; yours to devour once her [i]dashing hero[/i] has had his flagship torn open and exposed to the void. Although hopefully the Divers will have winched her back in by the time that one or the other has proven themselves victorious. Otherwise, she will be legitimately helpless in the face of being eaten alive, and not even by some sort of star-swimming serpent.

In silence, in strictly-enforced silence, her hair billowing in the solar winds, her face all but hidden underneath Plundering Fang’s gifts, her body on display like that of a swimmer, the Princess plays her part in the old story.

[hr]
[1]: it remains suspicious that Plundering Fang was permitted to apply the regalia, and even provide some of it, but Sagetip insisted. Said it provided authenticity.
[2]: fortunately, even given her ritual toplessness[3], there’s no bounce to her thrashing. Yet another reason she is perfect for the role.
[3]: why, yes, Bella-Mosaic [i]was[/i] invited to the ceremony to watch.