There is nothing better than a massage from someone who does not give a shit about you.

Someone who cares will be gentle. Will be kind. Will be soft - or will be hard and deliciously cruel depending on their nature. But when there is a dialogue and self-expression and intimacy, the unique touches of a lover draw away from the possibility brutal, mechanical perfection. The Shogun could fix catgirls all day on an assembly line and every one of them would stagger away with knees too weak to walk and bliss too thick to speak through.

It's amazing. 

A gift from the Gods.

Hermes, Nero, Imperator in her wisdom must have noticed the suffering of her people. And so she donned her healer's mantle and put this power in the hands of the Wolves. Your arms are wrenched and dislocated. A burning paw stomps on your neck so hard it feels like it might break. Your ears are yanked and pulled. Hairpin needles are drawn from the Shogun's hat and stabbed into the centres of pain that had become part of your personality. Art like this went from the galaxy when Hermes descended from Olympus, and its return, for all its agony, is the most transcendent of bliss.

"The Empress of the Galaxy," said the Shogun, "has descended to the Underworld. There She corrects the wicked shades of the dead, and teaches them again of glory. The Wolves of Ceron have been issued with this great mission: To seek the True Death. We fight and die and are reborn in the shadow of Nemesis, our flesh renewed as bird and beast, our souls and legacies returned in the cloning vats of Ceron. We live, we die, we live again. But one day the weight of our deaths and our kills will become so heavy that we will pierce Demeter's law and our souls will fall to the Underworld. When they do, we will find Tellus and summon it to Nemesis. All the uncountable shades of humanity will rise with it, and with them, our Empress. Until then, we live. We die. We live again."

At last she was done. She pitilessly stepped away.

"To reign in her stead, She has left Her shadow atop the Psycho Throne. She awaits you, Voyagers, upon the surface of Nemesis -" the Shogun gestured at the empty space in the centre of the Ring.

Space warps and distorts. The will of the God of Travel runs through a million glyphs and prayers. A divine hand reaches out to a distant star where a hidden pack howls at the moon. In the blink of the eye a pristine world is plucked from Heaven and served up to the Wolves for execution.

C-beams glitter in the dark. Orbital plates flatten mountain ranges with graviton pulses. Wolves pour from the skies - some in jets, some in pods, some simply leaping through the endless azure skies. Flickers of defensive systems come online, fortresses close their gates, military bases scramble to react. But, like an oryx separated from its herd, all it is now is meat.

"- so come with me now," said the Shogun, illuminated by the fires of Hell. "Come, but be warned. Whenever I step foot on the surface of Nemesis I am fair game. Any of my wolves might kill me freely and claim my title, and once that happens it can be [i]months [/i]before my conqueror will be established enough to pick up where I left off. So, unless you'd like this to be a long trip, I suggest you keep me alive~"