Bella!

Artemis looks at Bella like she's stupid. "You're alive," she said. "Aren't you?"

She wears her suit, silver grey, tight fit, sharp against the black collared shirt, black office shoes, and black strangler's gloves. Her hair is a shock of tangled brown, cut short on both sides, a single silver moon-shaped earring on her right ear. She stands like she's either greeting a dignitary or about to throw a punch, and no amount of polite precision can distract from the fact that her eyes are voting for the punch. Don't worry, it's not personal.

"You're alive," repeated Artemis, "when you started as dead. I've had hunters raised from the dead before but that's because people remembered them enough to summon them from the Lethe. I've never had one drag themselves out the hard way. Of course I'm not disappointed."

She paused. "Unless you're talking about the sex, which I will reluctantly concede as being necessary for this stage of the operation. I can overlook it, for now."

Ember and Dolce!

Plundering Fang has always had an eye for vulnerability.

"I have decided," she said, "that we shall make the captive into the Syneffo's outfit."
"What do you mean?" asked her combat tailor, Lytefit.
"This is also fashion in the Skies," said Plundering Fang, high-handedly. "Sometimes a pet servitor is made to be both companion and fashion, like a fox-scarf who wraps around her mistress' neck. It's unusual for an Azura themselves to be used for this sort of thing but not entirely unprecedented. We just need to pretty her up, wrap her in -" Hera maliciously leaned down to whisper in Plundering Fang's ear. "- peacock feathers," said Plundering Fang with a smile, "paint her scales, add some gold chains and supports so that she can move easily while carrying him. Maybe fit her with a saddle~"

Ember, this is a problem. Plundering Fang has just found an opportunity to move to the next stage of the competition without having her puppet release Dolce for a moment - if she gets away with this there's not even going to be a moment where you'll be able to do more than stare into those glazed and helpless eyes. You need to find a gap in the armour.

Dyssia!

It's time. The Plousios is about to descend into the flames of a star.

The diviners agree it can't be put off any further; the initial clash with Liquid Bronze delayed but did not end the pursuit, and as decisive a victory as 'stopping time' was the Biomancer General has divine allies of his own that have put him back on the case. It's time to follow through on the original plan and descend into an open fusion reactor until the hounds pass by.

The upside for you is that this is going to put you beyond having to worry about any big philosophical questions for a while. The downside is that the interiors of stars are hot. Not too hot - the Academy of Biomancy, where new species are forged, is built on the volcanic Forge of Hephaestus in the center of a trinary star system, so organic life in this galaxy knows a thing or two about enduring extreme solar heat. Also, the sunspot where you will be sheltering will actually be several million degrees cooler than the fusion reactor in the heart of the ship's Engine. An Imperial-Era battleship's hull armour is proof against even the direct plasma vent of a Starbreach. You're not going to die.

But oh my god does it feel like you're going to die. It's hot. Servitors cluster around ventilation panels, lying sprawled in the whispers of cool air. The entire ship is covered in a fine layer of downy fur from where the Ceronians and Pix have been shedding. And here and there can be seen the hulking and indifferent shape of a battlecrab, often carrying on its back a prisoner or two who strayed too close to the waterline in search of relief. There'll be time to launch a rescue invasion or negotiate with the Tides or something later, this isn't a crisis. You just need to get through it.

So how do you beat the heat, and who is keeping you company while you do?

As much as she loves the Pix, they are a bit much.

That is to say, she loves them so much--loves their smell, their feel, their competition, the way she can be on top one moment and under someone else's heel the next--but also they run incredibly hot. Being in a cuddlepile of Pix is to have several miniature furnaces purring into you from every direction. Restrictive in the best way, normally her favorite way to sleep but...

She's not so much hiding from them as, you know, temporarily avoiding them.

(They'll recover, surely, and she'll make apologies later for not being in the room which is currently more shed fur than bunkhouse. Ropes may be involved, depending on how adeptly she apologizes.)

The ones clustered around the vents are smart, you know? But the smarter ones--like, say the ones that had a couple years of redshifted time to poke around and unscrew and put things back together--know that there's a magic spot near the ramming prow of the ship, yeah? The armor of the ship's thicker there, with more insulation. It's about as far as you can get from the Engine, which itself puts out a not-inconsiderable-amount of heat. And, most importantly, the vents widen out enough to be comfortable, instead of just tolerable. Less airflow, but it's all hers.

She, admittedly, didn't expect anyone else to know about it. And yet, here Iskarot is, tucking the glowing-edged section of cut-out ventilation shaft back into place behind him.

It's all she can do to laugh. In spite of the danger. Because of the danger. Bella tilts her head back and guffaws in full sight of the goddess of the hunt. Her messy hair rolls and tumbles in dark waves across her neck, over her shoulders, and down her back as she rocks back and forth amid the barking of her own amusement. She laughs so hard it starts to burn her lungs and somehow that manages to make her laugh even harder, tail curling in pleasure up against the wall.

No, it was good to be alive. In that sense, even the exhaustion felt a strange kind of nice.

"My whole--" she says, but then stops herself.

The air is hot where it enters her nose. It stings inside her lungs when she holds it there. It leaks between her fangs as steam. She pulls a breath in again, carries it into the next moment, and then pushes it away with the next shape of the thought inside her head. On the third cycle she lets her eyes flutter shut, if only for a moment. Just a slow blink, and nothing more.

"...Fair enough."

She does not rise to her feet and try to bow. She does not drop to her knees and sink her forehead to the ground in prayer. Her body is still but for the now steadied rise and fall of her chest as she takes in more of that wonderful air. No sudden movements that could be taken as aggression. No fawning that could be construed as begging for any favors she is not owed and cannot earn. No showing of her claws or tensing of her muscles that might imply an attempt at defense. Under the direct gaze of the greatest hunter in the universe Bella could not be predator or prey, or even subject or priestess. Right now she had someone who could watch her back and did not need to be watched in turn. Or she was a single incorrect remark away from traveling back through the Lethe to meet Hades again. Either way it was out of her hands.

There's simply nothing to do besides relax. The tranquility of that thought bleeds into her shoulders and the knot at the base of her neck finally slips free. While her muscles fall slack her skin hisses in protest at the sudden change in shape and position of her wounds. Once again she blinks.

"I've been, mmn. Watching you for a very long time. I could never find you, but I knew where to look. You talked to Mynx all the time. Belja-- for fuck's sake Bella -- Gemini always went on and on about how she was your special girl. After she and I started talking to each other anyway. But even when Mother stuffed me inside of that suit and woke up the name that's hiding underneath this one I couldn't see you at all. Even while I was asleep! My, Mosaic's prayers never blessed her, uh... me? With your voice. You've been there, always, but I have never once been good enough to spot you."

That quiet little smile steals across her lips again. While it sits there she is beautiful, and worthy of her name. But the shadow passes over her face like an eclipse and steals it all back. She watches Artemis with hungry eyes that long to take that punch with almost as much zeal as they yearn for the touch of affection. She sighs.

"Well that's not true, is it? You were the one who woke me up from my dream. But why me? I'm more confused than ever. I can't possibly be your best piece on whatever game board the galaxy's supposed to look like. I'm even shittier as a priestess. I thought for a bit there maybe you were punishing me, but if I'm not a disappointment then, why? What am I here for? Why am I... me?"

Now, the Princess Redana would have gaped uselessly at this. Come, we can admit it. Her sense of justice would have been pricked, and her indignation would have swamped her in sputtering, blushing, and an insistence that that was deeply unfair! It would have taken a looming maid behind her to actually make her insistence that the universe should be fair, should play by rules, should involve everyone working together to a common aim.

Ember smiles beatifically. "Why, that's so clever, Plunder~!" She makes a hand signal to her wolves and then slides down the coils right into Plundering Fang's arms, still smiling. "Much more clever than I would expect from you, honestly! Did a thought finally get into that silly little head of yours?" She tilts her head in an impudent way, showing the flash of her neck, and then smacks the rump of her old tormentor while exuding Challenge. But when Plundering Fang's arms tense around her, she's already snaking out, dancing a few steps back. She sticks out her tongue.

"Or am I wrong? Did Mistress Bella Mosaic give you tips on fashion after you begged her so politely, wagging your tail, sitting on command and showing her how well you can bark? That must have been her idea! Oh, you naughty little thing, using your lustful body in order to get plans from our patron demigoddess!"

Plundering Fang lunges, but Princess-Alpha Ember is already doing a backflip, the sort that she'd practiced over and over again on Tellus. She lands nimbly and dances back, rump waggling, teeth on display, knowing full well that Plundering Fang never chases somebody alone.

Behind Plunder, Goldie is already wrapping a soft, comfy blindfold over Dolce's eyes, while Flickear gives him scritchies right above the ear and tells him that he's doing a great job. Bereft of sight, the gentleness and omnipresence of Ember's followers will certainly be all that the Synnefo can focus on, even in the coils of the serpent (who, once Fang's drawn off, will also be blindfolded~!).

[3 on Keeping Her Busy.]

The world slips into soft, fluffy darkness.

He only just remembers to breathe.

Did you know, there’s a disadvantage to all this wool? Yes, it’s one of the softest, most luxurious materials around. Yes, it’s so, so pleasant to brush, for him and the brusher. Yes, in a pinch, it does quite well at cushioning falls and various household accidents, and warning him when he’s perilously close to bumping his head on a table. And that’s the problem. In the darkness, what’s the difference between the thick coils of a snake and the powerful arms of a wolf? There’s only muffled pressure. There’s only being held fast on every side, from every side. It gets harder and harder to pick out the hissing breaths of the Azura from the swelling tide of panting engulfing him. He’s surrounded. By everyone and everything. And he can hardly tremble he’s held so firmly.

“Lie back, little prince.~”

…sorry, what was that? Who was that? With the voice like molten chocolate? They were talking to him, because there wasn’t anyone else they could be talking to, and it was his ear that they breathed their whispers into. That. Hrm. Had Ember told them something ahead of time, without telling him? Or was this how they treated all their…captives. Captives. He is a captive. Not prey.

While these thoughts occupy his mind, his body obeys on instinct. Not that he can do much moving. But he can go limp. He can very easily go limp.

“Gooood. Good sheep. Brave, bold, daring sheep, to give himself willingly to the Wolves of Ceron.”

He’s…floating? He’s moving? It’s impossible to tell, beyond how long it’s been since he’s touched solid ground. There’s, he feels points of pressure, everywhere, always in motion. Dozens of hands holding him up, brushing through thick curls, getting ohhhhhh, getting that one spot behind his ear, yes, yes, oh yes. Flows of lean muscle covered in short, soft fur caress his face, his limbs, and weren’t those in scales a moment ago? He’s squeezed against soft pillows, invited to sink, sink, sink in so deep…

It makes it very hard to get his thoughts together enough to say, “excuse me, I, should warn you, just in case, I’m not really-”

The hands find his chin.

“Shhhhhhh.”

And they scratch, and they pet, and they play, until properly articulate speech becomes. Difficult.

“Relaaaaax. You’re being so, so good for us.”

Oh. Ohhhh.

See. He had thought something about this was familiar.

Vasilly called him treasure too.

“All you need to say is ‘too much’ or ‘yes.’ It would be a stain on our legend if such treasure came to harm in our hands.”

She had fur like that. She had muscles like that. She held him like that, so tightly he had no hope of escaping. She loved squeezing him silly. She loved to see

to…t-to see…

A vision rises from the darkness. Vasilia rises from the darkness. Perched upon her throne, glorious in her finery, she rises above, and all she sees is under her dominion. And what does she see before her but the famed Ceronians, lavishing such care upon her precious Dolce in her honor. See the curl of her lips, and know her approval! Hear the rumble in her chest, and know her delight!

It. It was quite. Hot. With, so many, around. Oh. Goodness.

“Leave alllllll the rest to us. We know how to treat royalty, don’t we, little prince?~”

“Y…yes…”

Bella!

"You're right," said Artemis. "You are not the best piece I have. In fact, you're actually horribly obsolete. Three hundred years out of date. Sanalessa, another Diodekoi, is on this same ship and she is your superior in every way. Not least that she actually trains, while you've been coasting since the Olympics and you're horribly out of shape. Unfortunate, because Vesper will have her fight you, and she'll kick your entire ass and probably set me back a century."

"But," sighed Artemis. "She's useless to me. Even you're probably useless to me, to be honest. I am not being kept from my target because none of my huntresses are capable of bench pressing enough iron. Zeus took first crack at the problem, after all. All the galaxy couldn't apply more violence. No, what I need isn't bigger, faster, stronger what I need is..."

She trailed off for a moment, letting an idea roll about on the tip of her tongue. "Mistletoe," she said eventually. "What I need is mistletoe."

Ember and Dolce!

"Good"

The pheromone slips inside your heads and burns to the core. Good. Things are good. You are good. All of this is so, so good. Ember feels arms wrap around her shoulders as Gemini nuzzles against her cheek. It isn't clear that the reward centres of your brains, already so overloaded by the weight of the situation, needed this additional kick from an Oratus Adept but it does mean there's no space to go from here.

"Did you forget about us, little pets?" said Taurus, stretching languidly as she came into the room. "How silly of you. I've let you play around for too long, but it's time for you to remember that you have to earn your treats."
She reached into her bag and scattered a handful of collars across the floor. Each of them had a name ready and engraved. "Please, put on your collars, all of you. You can help each other if you finish early. Then we're going to do some practice - I cannot be having fights breaking out when you perform for Mistress Vasilia."

Dyssia!

A metal stencil comes out of those robes and presses against the wall. With a puff of yellow smoke, it imprints a hazard warning sign on the metal:

AREA IDENTIFIED AS RESPONSIBLE FOR INEFFICIENT HEAT BLEED
AREA WILL BE SEALED OFF AND USED FOR PLASMA CONDENSATION STORAGE
VACATE AREA IMMEDIATELY

Then that blank hood turns to stare at you and a metal finger taps the sign loudly and pointedly.

Ice. Every vessel in her body restricts with the sheer intensity of the cold clawing at her insides just now. The fractal patterns of frigid crystals grow in the pit of her stomach and fan outwards from there. Her spine is so tense so suddenly that she fears it is going to shatter. Her ears stretch painfully toward the wall above her head. Her breath is hissing through her teeth.

Bella's eyes leave the goddess to behold her claws once more. These misshapen and brittle tools that she'd put such pride in her entire life, attached to the long and twisted fingers of a monster who had slept so long that the universe passed it by. Her arms, with their hideous white fur and all of the acid burn marks that hadn't been bothered to get cleaned away when she'd been processed to show off more of the cold, pale skin underneath and appear more "human". All her vaunted muscles were straining and sore, but even more than that they were soft and shattered. Mosaic had moved a mountain and the attempt broke her.

Every awkward place her body pinches where it shouldn't, or stretches where it can't afford to feel on display. Her strength is built into softness, and in her awkward halfassed lifestyle she's let both slip from between her horrible fingertips. That plain and ordinary face she'd seen in the water is all that she could be. This unshaped mass of lumpy clay is all her body could ever be. Disgusting. At once too fat and too thin, too human and too animal, too burned out and too lazy. All in all completely useless. A relic with nothing to be proud of. She should have stayed where she belonged.

What had she been expecting, exactly? A pat on the head? To be told that she was special, that she had some grand fate that the Gods themselves had ordained for her? Pathetic and stupid, Bella.

Her fingers curl into fists, and it takes every fraction of power in her body to uncurl them again before she can stab her claws into her palms. Her lips curl into a sneer, and then a snarl, all teeth with nothing but her own mouth to bite back down on. She wills her lips closed again, and breathes out through her nose. She'd spent too much time among the wolves. It was so easy to hear their howling and get swept up in the power of that swell. But here on the floor, burning and freezing to death at the same time it's suddenly so much easier to see why the moon never quivered at the sound.

Her arms are trembling as she sets them in her lap. Her eyes shine like lamp lights in the dark. She forces her attention back to the goddess, who has not looked away even once this entire time.

"...Fuck you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, "Don't you dare underestimate me."

The words are deliciously warm. She can feel her throat thawing and the crackle of her very dry lips as they finally taste moisture again. Her heart pounds with frantic delight inside her chest, equal parts thrilling at the terror of the hunt and the elation of the chains that fall at her feet.

"She's stronger than me? Faster than me? Works harder than I do? I don't care: she's between me and Vesper. I am going to save my sister, Lady Artemis. I'm gonna to pull her head out of her ass and I'm gonna do it without resetting her, and I'm sick to fucking death of being told all the ways that's impossible."

Even now, Bella does not bother standing. Her position has not changed and there is no show of force she can muster that will change Artemis' view of her, especially when a show of force is just what she'd said she doesn't want or need. She does not even raise her voice above the shaky whisper she'd begun with or make any secret of her terror just now. All of that is for shit. What matters is that she has a voice at all.

"Would you like it in writing? Because I'll give it to you. If I'm a failure then so be it. If I'm a disappointment even though you played me anyway, that's nothing new to me. Nero, Redana, Jil, Dolce, even Dyssia. I've let everyone down who's ever depended on me. But here I am. I'm not asking you to do the work for me, ok? But since I know you can hear me for once, this is my prayer. Light my path, Artemis. Show me where to put my feet so I can get where I set out to go. If show me even that much care, then I promise you here and now that I'll be whatever it is you need. No matter what it costs me. I will not allow a Diodekoi, not an Empire, not even a God to stop me. After that. After that, if you're satisfied, then I'd like..."

"… Why do you have a stencil for this?"

No, seriously, that's. How many times are you going to have exactly this need?

No, actually, wait, hold on--

"How many areas have you marked like this?"

She's reaching for it--how many layers of yellow smoke? Can she tell that by how marked it i--and it's back in the robes. Somewhere.

Fuck.

He's doing his job. Or, you know, not his job, but the job he's decided is his job. That's good. We encourage that. We encourage people to think for themselves and cultivate skills and actually this is pretty similar to his. No, no, wait, no it's not, biomancy. His job is to evolve, which, apparently, means telling her what to do on her ship!--

No. No, don't be dumb. Push it down. Yes, it's instant, yes, it's instinctual--Cultural? Is there a difference at this point?--and it's dumb and it's stupid and you're better than that, Dyssia.

Besides. He's not. Not wrong, necessarily. Just unnecessarily an asshole. Cooling things here means cooling everywhere, just. Not for her and--

"Excuse the fuck out of me, but this is a ventilation shaft. For, you know, air. It's a main ventilation shaft. And at every terminus, there's a pile of people who're gonna get pretty well done when you run plasma through it.

"So here's what we'll do. I'll surrender this ground to your plasma cooling for the good of the ship. And for the good of the crew, you can show me your plan to make sure nobody gets hurt by this."

Ember holds a collar in her hands, and she is stiff as a statue.

C'mon. Be a good girl. Put it on. There's something misfiring here between her arms and her brain, between her hormones being played like a harp and the way her arms just won't move. And that misfire, that jam, is...

"...Bella said this is okay, right?" It's hot and hard to think, and the crush is on all sides, the joy of Ceron is being part of the pack, but her arms just aren't moving. "Because, she, Mosaic, she's the only one who gets to..."

That's untrue, isn't it, Dany? You get into all sorts of scrapes. Tumble up and down the scoreboard, end up in peril and doom, change from face to face like drama masks, but down at the bottom of them all there's you. And you're married.

"I'm your sister-in-law," Gemini breathes sweetly in her ear. "I'm practically doing it for her."

"Okay," Ember says, eyelids heavy. "But can you put her name on here? Weave it in the, the collar, or etch it on the tag, or..."

Gemini takes it from her. Ember's arms fall like her training weights are tied to them. All around her are the sound of bells, of bells, she was wearing a bell and that made all bells beautiful, Bell-a Bell-a Bell-a, and when they find that lost world nobody and nothing's gonna keep them from finding a home, Bell-a Bell-a Bell-a with a jangling mood and a beautiful face, softer now, lovely always, Bella who came for her, Bella who married her, Bella who refused to break...

Gemini shows her the nametag, etched with a claw, the name of the one woman she belongs to, and Redana throws her arms around Gemini and hugs her, tail thwacking all around, giddy with the relief of everything settling into place in her head. Now she can stumble back down from rule. Now she can be praised for her qualities and not judged for failing to measure up. Now she can be a very special member of this pack:

The one who has BELLAS at her throat, and a small silver bell hung there.

Good.

He is doing good.

Everything is good.

Good. Good. Good.

The individual breaths of the pack melt into a warm, hazy cloud. There is pressure that holds fast, pressure that scratches gently, pressure that drifts luxuriously across him, and there is only a memory of hands. One voice speaks of performance. One voice continues its litany of whispered honey. Many voices speak, of wool, of collars, of peace, of treasure.

Dolce does not consider which is which. There is nothing he needs to mind. There is no task or protocol he needs to remember. There is no one he must help. They’re all good. He’s good. This, is good. Good. Good. The worries are answered and disassembled before they can be thought.

He is completely limp, floating in darkness, borne along in a sea of wolves. To where, from whence, he cannot say, and doesn’t bother remembering. There is a click. There is a pressure that lingers around his neck. Soft, lovely, not so tight to squeeze, not so loose he can forget, so good nestled in his wool.

There is a jingle.

A beautiful, delicate note, ringing bright in the rumbling sea. And the sea takes notice of it. The note mingles with whispers, and the whispers bring with them fond nuzzles and playful touch. So cute. So lovely. So pretty.

Imagine. In the darkness. Beyond the darkness. Imagine that Vasillia…that Mistress Vasilia might hear this note too.

Poor Dolce’s heart aches to bursting, and he must, and he must say,

”Yes.”

Good.

Bella!

Artemis looks out of the window. Outside, in the distance, there is the Muster.

A strange thing happens to a civilization when it stops thinking in terms of resources and starts thinking in terms of galactic mass. Juicing black holes for their hydrogen atoms creates the conditions where eventually the galaxy might run out of black holes, and without a cluster of supermassive gravity wells in the centre then the galaxy will eventually destabilize and begin to drift apart, suns flung off into endless night. A problem aeons away, but any response will take aeons to complete. And so, the Muster - a backstop for the stability of the Skies, an expeditionary invasion armada with the objective of traveling to foreign galaxies in order to steal the supermassive black holes at their cores.

The main mechanism is a comprehensive network of acceleration gates, vast galactic catapults designed to hurl warspheres across the cosmic black to neighbouring galaxies. These gates consist of networks of thousands of rings, each one proving space warping microsingularies in their centres to accelerate the launching warsphere to the speed of light. At the final stage of this process a quantum encoder - a vast and brutal machine of spiralling energy - folds the ship into the sign of Zeus, crushing the light-ship until it becomes a thunderbolt. With a crack of thunder - and there is thunder here, in the proto-atomosphere of the spreading Skies - the ship is blasted across the rift between galaxies as though thrown from the arm of Zeus herself.

Every hour a new ship is loaded into the quantum encoder. Every hour a new thunderbolt flashes between galaxies. None of these ships are expected to ever return, no knowledge of their success or failure will ever be known, until thousands of years later the beating heart of the foreign galaxy begins to move towards this one.

Ten more encoders are under construction.

"I never said you were a failure," said Artemis. "In fact, I went out of my way to establish that you were not a disappointment. Heracles had twelve labours, and when he had accomplished six it did not make the next six any less impossible, nor did overcoming the impossible six times make him wiser than Odysseus. It simply meant he had overcome the impossible six times. And now, as with you, there is another impossible task at hand."

She closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. "But once the twelve were done, there were no more. This I can promise you, too. And for now, you must descend into the underworld of this ship; the secret depths where the bones of crews past lie slain by each others' love. Your sister works there."

Ember and Dolce!

"It's straightforwards," said Gemini, as she patted your heads and wrapped you in flowers. "You need to approach Vasilia and show her what remarkable talents you have developed. And then..." she sprinkles some golden dust into the flowers, where it sparkles and glitters. "... give her your flowers. Tell her about the smell. Make sure she breathes deep. It's very important she appreciates them as much as she appreciates you."

"I appreciate you doing this, Gemini," said Taurus. "You didn't have to..."
"Oh, hush~," said Gemini. "It's all for the good, isn't it? You'll learn secret combat techniques, these two will exhibit all of their many skills and talents, Bella will finally be able to take a rest, and Vesper will ascend as the promised messiah and resurrect everyone who has ever died! Literally everyone wins!"
"She'll -" Taurus blinked.
"What?" said Gemini, fluttering her lashes. A golden symbol glowed on the back of her neck - a paragraph of instructions, written on her body the same way that names had been written on Bella's, back when she'd become XIII.
"... Nothing." said Taurus. "Come on, then. For the universal good, you must satisfy your catgirl wives."

Dyssia!

The Hermetic stares at you blankly for an extended period of time.

Then he suddenly lunges a hand towards his coat, a reflex so fast it feels like he's about to pull a gun. Instead he pulls a bottle - a large, heavy and rounded industrial piece of glassware, solid enough to crack a skull, with a long neck that would make a great handle if it was used as a club. The glass is yellow tinged, wrapped with a handmade cloth label with the words BATCH 145 written in blocky sharpie, and the fluid inside has the viscosity of molten chocolate.

He offers it to you. It is clear this is a bribe.

"You do understand the Twelve Labors were a punishment, right? Or is that the point you're-- mmmn. No, never mind. I get it, ok? I get it. Can't wait to see the bullshit you've got lined up for me on the other side of this."

Bella rolls her eyes. A beat of two, and with heroic effort she surges from her spot on the wall onto one knee. And from there, to her feet. Her arms stretch toward the stars and her back arches in a long and elegant curve behind her. As her fingers bend back and her heels leave the ground so she can stand on her toes, Bella is a bow. Her tail lifts up toward her hair and together these become the string. It would take no effort whatsoever for Artemis to reach out and pluck her to send some terrible doom in the shape of an arrow at wherever whatever or whoever she pleased. All that it would cost is the woman she'd been speaking to, which is really no cost at all.

But the Goddess simply watches. As much as not she doesn't even really do that much. The woman, once a maid, once a Praetor, once an assassin, once a monster, once a demigod, once a queen, now nothing, settles back down into a standing position and becomes Bella again. She rolls her shoulders to feel their power. She tenses her claws against the air. And she scoffs. Then she sighs, softer this time.

"...But if I make it to the end that's it, right? Sure. That's a deal, Goddess. Do what you need with me till my sins are all washed clean. Just stop calling this shit impossible around me. I can't tell if you noticed or not, but I'm not Heracles. I don't have the luxury of using words like that. All this is for me is the continuation of the Olympics. I just. Haven't won yet. That's all."

Her feet are stones at the ends of her exhausted legs. They lift and fall without feeling as she walks away from the miracle projects of an Empire she cannot bow to and into the place where the air smells like the garden meeting the sea. Salt and rust and rotting plants, dried flowers and bones encrusted through with gleaming diamonds. A place of broken glass and shattered murals. Even the crabs give this place a wide berth.

Of course they do. No living creature wants to intrude upon the temple of Death.

Bella twists her neck as she moves. Her shoulders seem to weigh as much as her entire body, but she simply strikes them with a fist until pain takes over fatigue as the prevailing sensation. She lifts them with pride, and her arms swing with controlled ease by her sides at every step. She does not pick her way gingerly through the path in front of her, but rather crushes it all underfoot in a straight line. Fallen warriors, each and every one of them her superior, shatter beneath her heel. The crunch melds with the clacking of her toe claws against the metal of the floor and together mark her entry.

Cloaked in shadow with eyes gleaming, a tall, lithe silhouette crosses the threshold into the place where Sagakhan had attempted to explain the nature of the universe, once upon a time. Then as now, she wears a pure and simple white robe. Then as now, her body screams inside of her with the the memory of a hundred horrible abuses. Then as now, there's nowhere to go but forward. To the place where XIII was born.

But this time her eyes see clearly. She sees green and gold and blue and flecks of melting orange where before there was only swirling black and grey. This time her head is held high and the air is filled not with chanting and her own desperate screaming, but with the crunch crunch clack of her own steady footfalls and the distant sound of lapping water and the rippling plips of condensation striking a pool. This time she does not need anyone to tell her that she has claws.

She pulls the place and the moment into her lungs, and transforms it into the voice of bright and musical authority.

"Vesper."

Dyssia takes the bottle, and immediately feels foolish.

It's like, she just wanted to feel it, right? Run her fingers down the bottle, sniff at it, feel her sinuses clearing from the amount of alcohol wafting through the cork. It's heavy, and the liquid doesn't quite follow gravity like you'd think it oughta.

But now it's in her hands, and it's heavy because it's the kind of thing you can't--

It's not like you can just press it back in his hands and go "oh, sorry, I just wanted to look at the bottle, it's such a pretty color," right?

Well, that is, theoretically she could, but also it would mean losing face in front of Iskarot if she can't do it gracefully, and words are hard at the best of time and right now she just took a bribe when people's safety was on the line and--

Oh fuck, people are still on the line.

She stares at Iskarot a second longer, mouth agape, before rushing past him. She has to warn, has to let them know!--

She freezes, panting, halfway down the hall. In her white-knuckle fist, the liqueur in the bottle sloshes gently.

No, no, she has to be smart. She could run herself ragged running to each vent, checking for the yellow marks, persuading each of the people clustered around them to vacate the premises for somewhere hotter but safer.

But she has friends. She has people she can rely on.

She sprints down the corridors, recruiting poeople as she goes.

Because she's not in this alone.

Ember!

-jingle jingle jingle-

Picture a shark’s fin cutting through the surface as it approaches its next meal. Or a silly pup’s ears poking up out of a cornfield, scooting back and forth as they make their stealthy sneaky approach.

-jingle jingle jingle-

Your pack is all around you. There is much work to be done, and little time to do it, but you are Daughters of Ceron, one and all. You move as one. You work as one. You perform as one. The miracle will be done, and it will be done on time. Over the hustle and bustle of hundreds of wolves, that delicate sound floats above them all.

-jingle jingle jingle-

It bumbles along, neither hurried nor lazy. It weaves through the pack, snaking a route through the tightest of openings without missing a step. The only time it slows is when a passing wolf bends low and it must dance beneath their fingers.

-jinglejinglejinglejinglejingle!-

But not for long. Never for long. It always keeps moving. Inexorably, obediently,

-jingle jingle fwump!-

Back to you.

A mass of fluffy curls (politely!) places itself in your waiting hand, ringed by a crown of flowers, as if to say, “Here! Here! This is where your hand goes!” There’s no struggling bleats. His breathing is steady and sure. His head is still beneath your hand.

“I finished the letter, and sent it straight to Vasilia. She knows when and where to expect us.”

It was his idea. You could have sent the invitation yourself, but what better way to assure Vasilia that everything was good than a letter from her beloved’s own hand? A pity to have your precious treasure put himself to such pains, but for love, an exception could be made. And he asked so, so eagerly.

Besides. You’ll make it up to him soon enough, won’t you?

He’s doing such a good job of not looking where the tailors are hard at work. Even with a potent rush of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He wouldn’t dare ruin the surprise.

She fought for this job, you know? Bullied her way right here, with her tools in her hands, and the burning determination to fulfill that which has been left undone. A task which yawns, enormously, across her past. And even if she cannot think of exactly why this must be done, she knows with certainty that she must do this. For Dolce. For Vasillia. For the journey.

The song that spills from her lips is slow, contenting, one she happened to hear back at the beginning of everything. Back when she, oh so briefly, rode with privateers. And she got to hear how they roared their excitement, how they tossed call and response back and forth across their ships, and, most importantly for this moment, how they wove their voices together to sing of the journey home, the sway of waves, the romantic tension of fighting alongside one another, and leaving all your fears, your disappointments, your regrets behind you.

Hold your head high!
Hold your head high!
We are alive!
We are alive!

The brush and the comb are as gentle as that song, but as insistent. These are the weapons with which she carves out Elysium. The drag of the brush through his curls, across his scalp, never tugging or pulling, just giving each one the proper bounce. The flick of the comb, the twist to accentuate those ringlets. They are scented with oils, and in their wake they leave softness, tenderness, and a certain sensitivity of the scalp.

For, say, when Ceronian nails drag up and down. Like this. While the song continues, promising peace and safety and joy among your comrades, your dearest friends, the people who chose to stand side by side with you.

And you hear that, Dolce?

The whole pack is singing along.

Let it fall, let it go.
Let it fall, let it go.
We are here, and we are now.
We are here, and we are now.

You carried so much for so long without complaint, once-Captain. You were trapped among enemies, forced to join in the hunt of your beautiful wife. Let it fall. Let it go. Let it fall. Let it go. We are here, and we are now.

All we got is us!
All we got is us!
The people who fight with us,
side by side with us,
we're all on the same ship home,
we're taking the same ship home.

And one day, Dolce, that will be true. That's a super Princess promise.

Bella!

The depths of the Plousios have an aspect best described as gnomic functionality. Lines are straight and clean, with deep stone trenches for fast-flowing rivers, adjoining small fields of grass that long ago learned how high they were allowed to grow. Then come strange white concrete walls, sometimes with red stripes or arrows - some waist high, some vanishing into the ceiling. There is the occasional tree like a centrepiece, glyphic as its fractal leaves fall in an eternal autumn. Sometimes pipes break these channels, cutting across between cubes according to some arcane design, and sometimes strange machinery can be heard to rumble behind those walls. Bundles of cables sometimes web across skate-parks of half-pipes and triangular shapes before easing back into water channels again. All of this brutalist gardening has a purpose, but that purpose might have been to play off the anxieties and cravings of a long-extinct servitor species - or as a calculated appeal to the gods, or as a frustrated shipbuilder failing to keep the complex mechanisms organized in an elegant way. Only Vesper knows.

"I'm still stuck on the bloody skeletons," said Vesper, sitting atop a high wall surrounded by light crystals. "I can see how to breach the gates of the Underworld, that part is way easier than you'd think - not that what we did was easy, but there are points where people have been filing at the door hinges already, if you get what I mean? No, what I'm struggling with is - did you know I won the skeleton war? There was this armada of these weird primitives who were, I shit you not, spooky halloween bone people, like, no muscle or connective tissue, just walking around like woooooOAOoooAOaoooo. It was so fucking weird. Anyway I killed them all, but what does that mean? If I let them out of the Underworld will they return as spooky skeleton people, or will they appear as they were pre-skeletoned? Will other people come out as skeletons? I'm basically having to simulate entire civilizational developments to see where and when we get to skeletontown before I can even begin to think through the implications."

She shook her fist, almost hitting the burning sun that hovered dangerously close to her head. "Bet you wish you hadn't been such cagey bastards now, don't you!?"

Dolce and Ember!

"You know, I have faced mutinies before," said Vasilia, sitting upon her lounge-throne. She's set up in the cargo hold, atop a mountain of treasures - bales of fabrics, bars of quadranix, pallets of hypernitrates. "But I cannot recall one as high effort as this."

She took a deliberate sip of her margarita and leaned forwards. "... So, despite my better judgement, I'm going to see how this plays out. What, precisely, have you prepared for me?"

Dyssia!

It's a rush. It's a ru-u-uuush. Oh, wow, are you still slithering straight? You haven't been this tipsy since... wait, the wine is still in the bottle? Like, not even a sip? Then why are you?

"Oh yeah, that'd be the bleeeeeeeeeed," said the Satyr, letting the word come out to the wheeze of his accordion. "Hermetic wine should be stored at 30 degrees or lower. Get it too agitated and the bottle won't contain it." He pushed his face against the bottle in your hand and took an enormous, full-bodied sniff.

"So my buddy, my buddy Iskarhaman - and you're a buddy too, never forget that, I'll never forget what you're doing for us here - my buddy yellowface back there needs to bring down the temperature. Around the still! Because if we don't jack it down a notch then all of this," he tapped his horns against the glass bottle - tok tok! "is going to evaporate right through the glass - up in smoke! And then nobody is getting smashed," accusatory: "You really should have thought about this before you did the whole star thing."

Oh hey, this is getting better and better. You just keep on going about kicking people out of their precious patches of relief and you'll be in good with the Hermetics secret wine stores and a Satyr. You can feel good times roll off this guy's back at about the same rate as he's shedding hair.

"No shit? How would that even come about? What kind of stupid-- Skeleton people... that's really fucked up. There's no way Demeter would be ok with that. That's, ugh, gods I'm picturing it. No that's gross. That's really gross, Ves. Glad you're not at the point where that's acceptable losses."

There is something soothing about the architecture of this place, despite its history. The idea of such grand workings and intent having their intent befouled by practical needs and the harshness of reality, perhaps, or even more simply than that just seeing an attempt at perfection fall short helps ease the tension in Bella's breath just a little.

Without that much, she might be dead right now. The air is hot, even accounting for the insane bullshit 'hide inside a star' plan the ship was preparing for, the atmosphere in this place is hostile and unbearable. Everything is too heavy by half, and it takes concerted and conscious effort to keep her posture straight and her hands up enough to defend herself if, no. When the moment comes. Her blood feels like it's trying to jump out of her body. Her eyes both feel as if they were being crushed under a vice. There's a headache crushing her skull and a dryness on her tongue that no amount or vintage of wine could ever hope to solve.

She tries to flex her fingers, to keep them loose. Every knuckle on her hand seems to pop like a firecracker as she moves from open palm to fist and then back again. Her claws feel pain, and so much weight pressed into them that they might as well be buried in some jackass king's chest right now. She can even feel the blood sickness swirling in her throat.

It has been since the Eater of Worlds that she felt this level of unprepared. Unqualified, and desperate. Her ear twitches, and she rubs at it with the back of one finger and a wince.

"I'd really like to believe you're telling me this because you like me, Vesper. Because that'd mean you're hoping I'll agree with you and just climb up there to join your stupid fucking plan. Not that you need me for any of it, but I happen to have it on good authority you've already made preparations to hand me my own ass and it would be a relief at the very least to know you don't want to."

Try as she may, Bella cannot keep her voice from straining. Or her jaw from clenching in between sentences. Her agitation is obvious to even the most distracted dullard who could be watching, from the muscles all over her body pulled so taut they're quivering to the restless tail at her back that won't stop bushing to its maximum volume.

The beating of her heart is audible. Bella plants her feet and cranes her neck to watch Vesper, and her eyes narrow to shield themselves from the light.

"...How about we turn it around for once? Just give up on this plan and walk away on your own this time. I don't want to do this, Sister. I'm begging you not to make me."

She's not!

Slithering straight, that is! To either! Slithering! Or straight!

She is, in fact, orbiting! Orbiting a point that is, in her experience, the perfect level of gravity to let her slowly cartwheel around it like a ringworld made of snake

A ringworld surrounding a bottle, which itself is tumbling in and through the center of the gravity field. Occasionally, she pokes it with the tail, sending it spinning in interesting--

"Oh, yeah, that'd explain it! Where's the still, friend?"

She watches the satyr rotate, spinning against the rotation of the bottle.

"Because I know it's gotta be somewhere in the ship, but I didn't see it before when I was doing my exploration, which means either it's new and exciting or, and this is the more exciting bit, since it's been distilling and distilling takes time that means that there's a part of the ship I haven't seen yet so spillllllll, bestie!"

And also if it's cold there, then that means the still itself is below freezing, which means it is exactly the best place in the ship to nap after they're out of a star, which is like triple reasons to find out!

The walkway is not suspended in the air by ropes, nor by chains, nor by struts. It is held, perfectly still, by the Daughters of Ceron. They serve as the way up, too. Up into hands, little sheep: up onto shoulders, strut confidently from us onto our steady ground. The walkway itself is a figure-eight, an hourglass, a place to walk until walking is no longer required.

Behold your husband, Vasillia of the Grav-Rail! Take him in from a distance; know that he will strut down the walkway until you could reach out and pinch his cheek, should you so desire. Naturally, given his body shape and the demands of fashion, he is wearing a robe- but it is the details that matter! This robe is the sumptuous maroon of a courtier from Tellus, and the orange-gold thread woven subtly into the robe shifts as he moves, shimmering and evoking the kitchen-hearth that is his domain. From his belt hangs a purse and counterweight; the counterweight is the pale white of a void-monster's bones, carved into the shape of Hestia sitting upon a cloud. A fan, similarly, is designed to be tucked into the inner pocket.

Out with it, Dolce! Flash it, let it be shown! On its white silk is a noble sigil from a world far, far behind us now, one which will serve well enough as the emblem of the noblewoman who sits in judgment. Beneath it are the tools of the chef, crossed as noble arms--

And which tools are these again, proud and extremely comfortable Dolce? Do share with us as you walk, coming and going, letting your lovely wife see you so warm and cozy from all angles. Let her see how the robe complements your frame; let her see the fuzziness of the boots, which are still able to stand up to any dropped knife; and let her see the flower that has been pinned delicately to your curls. Let her see all this, Dolce, and let her know that Ceron shall most definitely win the Contest of Fashion!

Up he comes. One foot in front of the other. Never a foot placed wrong, in space or time. A chef must move with precision; he must be where he needs to be without getting in anybody’s way or being noticed before his time.

“The walk is not just swaying hips and flattering clothing. Our precious conquests may tell a different story, but we’re not here to speak of captives, aren’t we~? Watch these three approach you: Which one could you most easily talk to? Which of them is the highest ranking? Which is the most dangerous? You know, don’t you? And yet none of them have spoken a word to you. The body is an instrument, and oh, what songs it can play…”

He struts. He sways. The robe hugs his wooly frame snugly, tied with a high-waisted belt of gold. The hem flutters with his rhythmic step. Rivers of flashing embroidery wave up and down his body. His curls bounce, and sway, and draw the eye to the perfectly poised shifting of his shoulders. Back and forth. Back and forth. A soft, delicate little thing. Wrapped and bound in luxurious comfort. Is he not made to be nestled up so lovely, held in a tight embrace?

It’s too much. It’s too much for a sheep to bear. He stops, and he must stop, and his fingers trace up his sleeve. The texture, the material, the shine, he is utterly enraptured. He leans back with ease. The curve of leg to robe over wool to cheek to curls beckons the eye upward. To shining bell. Gentle smile. Parted lips.

“Eyes closed, now. Fear not the pen and brush. A Daughter of Ceron holds within her a soldier, an officer, a peasant, a princess, a slave, a conqueror, and hundreds more. It is a petty trick to wear paints and masks. Far better to bring forth what always hid within.”

He is drawing closer now. Close enough for her to reach out and seize him. In the shadow of her claws, he steps through a slow dance. Step, and turn, and lift, and hold. Hold. Offer what the distance so unjustly denied her.

Drink in his curls, Mistress Vasilia. Are they not lovely? They have been brushed, washed, combed, blessed, and they are as luscious as the finest silk. They are as smooth and rich as fine cream; drink them in. They are adorned with fine, curling ribbons and a single, beautiful flower. Gaze through them. Follow curling lashes flitting through the clouds. Bask in the joy coloring his cheeks. Spy a light splash of pink at his lips.

But spy no more than that. The dance continues. Step, and turn, and stretch. Be satisfied with only passing glances. Again. Again. Again.

He passes beyond her reach. He passes untouched.

For a moment, his body blocks his right hand.

“Turn. Snap. Look. Hold. It must all happen in a moment; surprise is your greatest weapon. Strike from concealment. Use sudden motion to sow confusion. Find your target.”

-snap!-

The fan blooms, bright and brilliant. Noble regalia on a sea of pure white. Your symbol, Mistress Vasilia, and beneath it, his mark:

The long ladle. For serving. For providing.

The keen knife. For sharpness. For precision.

All this is yours. All this belongs to you. All this hides behind a thin sheet of silk. Save for his eyes. They are all you are permitted to see now. Shadows of gold and orange - bright as the new sunrise - frame long, curling lashes. Watch them blink, slowly. Here and there, just faintly, freckled dots of stars glimmer in the radiance. And his eyes themselves.

He meets your gaze, Mistress Vasilia. He is startled. Breathless.

Captivated.

“And make them want you~”

A slow smile curls Vasilia’s lips. With one hand, she bids him to continue. With the other, she has not stopped kneading the cushions of her throne. With her eyes, she devours him.

Dolce turns at her command. Dolce faces a long, long walk to the other end of the runway. Where he will turn, and face a long, long walk back. Then Dolce will face her again. And strut for her again. And feel his heart and head melt into a molten puddle. Again.

Dolce can’t do it.

Dolce doesn’t have to do it.

The wolves of Ceron bear him aloft. Again.