Cantimine was gorgeous, in a way which was at once distinctly Casobani, and distinctly [i]un[/i]Casobani. Distant tree-topped hills swayed with gentle colors; the ocean shimmered and shifted on the breeze; the air was cool and welcoming. Built into a small bay, the town itself stretched like a broken ring into the flanking reaches of land. Buildings in the nouveau-assembled style of Euseran cities, blocky and bubbled and asymmetrical, retro of a time period that never was, rose in a haphazard skyline and, shirking the architectural origins that would have left them unpainted and bearing their bolts and parts-barcodes to the world, instead were drenched in clashing colors and ornamentation. It looked like a town painted by synesthesia, to the tune of something grungy, futuristic, and beautiful. Bubble-chic. Culturepunk. Two countries melded imperfectly, violently together. 

Ships listed, drifting in the bay or bobbing in the harbor. More trickled in from the ocean waters, here a family catamaran, there a repurposed fishing trawler, a flag-laden pontoon, a cruise ship bristling with excitement and seasickness. 

The noise was an undeniable testament to the sheer size of the visiting parties. A far cry from the quiet hum of the Ange’s dorms. The closer she drew to the barriers, the thicker the air grew with it. Like hands reaching out to her head, to her throat, to plug her ears and eye and [i]drag[/i] her. The sparse crowd of personnel split around her as she stumbled, choked on her words, and summoned only meager sounds for her effort. 

She bumped backwards, hit something, someone. A hand took her by the scruff of her jacket, hauled her upright. “[color=a187be]Walk,[/color]” came the hushed, grumbled command. She was being push-carry-pulled away, out of the CSC zone’s thoroughfare and off, sidelong behind the pop-up buildings and supply tents, to the barrier wall. 

The air shed its layers of clamor, they found shade and the sort of solitude that permitted the occasional, momentary rubberneck. The grip on Quinn eased but did not let go. It held her still, not steady, and kept her facing the blank, dry-concrete gray of the barrier.

“[color=a187be]Control yourself,[/color]” Camille snapped behind her. “[color=a187be]Stare at the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it.[/color]”

The captain’s shadow overtook hers on the wall, she was blocking them from the views between the makeshift alleyways. Camille’s silhouette was sharp, armored, longsword at her hip. She did not let go, did not raise her voice any higher. 

“[color=a187be]This is your duty—lament it if you must, but do it here. You bear more than your own dignity now, so control yourself. If not for you, for them. For Casoban. For Runa. You cannot break.[/color]”