Mra’al!
You are admitted into a side chamber, and as ever, you step through first and assess, your thumb on the catch for your Chastening Rod. You catch the breath of the one they sent to handle your lady with velvet and honey become a satisfied exhalation as she consciously sets her shoulders and drapes one hand over her thigh in unspoken invitation to make yourself at ease; you are satisfied that the high visual noise of the chamber is not concealing a hidden assailant; you catch the scent of Dawn Roses, a subtle but lingering guest. All this in a moment, and then you stand aside and allow your lady entrance.
It has not gone unnoticed to you how, like children, the savages on this planet aped your lady unknowingly. Their puffed-up heroes had capes, and so does she, but hers is rich, lush midnight woven from Cold Worms, who subsist on only the cold light of their twice-condemned planet’s star. Their heroes wore tight bodysuits, and so does she, except hers is a hand-trained Cuckoo that languidly swirls its toxic colors across her body, a second and far more useful skin. And their heroes wore armor, and so does she, though hers is made of fine-etched platinum leaves treated to violently deflect force. But no native was as fine, as lovely; her tight-laced bun and trailing tails shine like burnished copper, and the eyes above her veil are serene, a soft grey that betrays nothing.
“In the name of Ishtar, Generous Star, She who brings forth the child, She whose eye is incisive, I bid you welcome, Inquisitor,” the handler says. “I have been instructed to comply with your every wish, given the long and praise-worthy relationship between our Houses. Glory to you, o keepers of peace, you who measure truth and muzzle discord!”
“I require the compliance of your security,” your lady says, her voice a blade sharpened against silk. Ten thousand years of pack instincts left unchanged by the gods sink their teeth into your spine: Alpha! Pack leader! Submit! Your pulse races, your breath hitching and fur rippling for a glorious needful moment. “I am invoking the Decree of the Hunt, in lawful manner, in the pursuit of my duties before my Warden and my goddess, She whose fangs are unseen by night, Hungry Star who teaches holy contempt. I require that this addition to your command structure be immediate and binding until such time as I release you from obligation.” The servant of Ishtar wilts immediately, unconsciously letting herself go slack in the face of your lady, who is as inexorable as an iceberg.
“But, surely,” the blessed servant stammers. (It is important for you to both remember that the Annunaki are of higher nature, and to remember that your tongue is commanded to silence regarding the flaws your lady uncovers in them. Every kit new to their service succumbs to careless speech; the sensible only do so once.) “You must understand that we are in festival, that there are protocols, that the disturbance, what am I to say to the Hierophant?”
“Tell her the truth,” your alpha says, resting one suggestive hand on the back of the chair made ready for her. (She rarely sits in the presence of those she judges. She, and you, must be either statues or holy monsters.) “Tell her that Annan ab-Ereshkigali, Pursuant of the Mysteries, hunts rebellion. And from there, trust to the long and praise-worthy history between our houses.” She pauses a strategic moment. “May I?” She says, and gestures to you.
“But of course, if you deem it needful,” the servant of Ishtar says, and means: if you insist. But your lady would not have asked if she did not mean to follow through. Your spine flashes electric as you hold yourself still, a well-trained huntress, the fur around your collar rippling delight and want.
“Mra’al: seek.”
***
Justin (3rd Dagger, 7th Lance, 4th Legion)!
The dumb humming is the worst part. Sure, electronics hum too, but they don’t make a tune out of it.
Your whole life, you’ve been what might politely be called a social climber. The jealous idiots, back when you went to high school, called you a brownnoser. But you know that working for whoever’s in charge is a whole lot better than raging powerlessly on the outs. So you passed Janissary training with flying colors. And now you’re here: trying to pay attention to three windows and the scenes flashing across them all at the same time in case the stupid genie misses something. Because if there’s one thing you learned early in training, it’s that genies are stupid, but that’s what makes them such good interfaces with the city. You have to be as smart as your masters to do anything useful with them.
Wait. What was that? There was a visual anomaly. Or was there? Raq Tar is your senior, and he didn’t say anything; if you make a big fuss about a flicker and it turns out to be nothing, you’ll look stupid. You keep your mouth shut. Now, if only the stupid genie would.
“Hey,” you say, and nudge at her with your boot. She reacts like it’s made of genie repellent, instinctively folding herself into a graceful pretzel to avoid touching you. “Shut up.”
Her automatic (automated?) response is drowned out by the sound of Raq Tar crumpling like a tin can. A superhero(???!) dressed up like one of the Annunaki, only without the veil, bounces nimbly off him and right at you. Where the hell did she come from?
A smarter guard would immediately tell Caphtor to sound the alarm. But you’re off-balance, and you learned early in training to lash out at anyone who’s not your superior when off-balance, so you swing the butt of your musket at her like a club, intending to smack her across the room like a golf ball.
The stupid genie goes “oooooh!” and watches with her hands in her lap, because, as mentioned before, genies are stupid airheads.
***
Étoile!
It’s too late. You tear your eyes away as fast as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel her eyes, hot and intent on the back of your head. You’ve been made, and now things have suddenly become much more dangerous. Because now that she knows you’re here, there’s no way your little sister isn’t going to insist on trying to help.
She’s wearing a tight silver silk number with elaborate pauldrons and ruffs billowing down her front, and the way it minimizes her from the hips down and bulks her up makes her look almost like a champagne glass. A red ribbon tied around one manacle shows that she is an Academy student on a live test.
Problem 1: if Celestine gets distracted trying to maneuver her way over to you, or worse, ditches the test entirely, the bad grade will eventually (as report cards wind their way to their destination) be taken out on your hiney. You have explained this to her before and she gets petulant and digs her heels in.
Problem 2: Celestine knows you’re here, which means that she’s going to ask you if you’re here to you know what, and if you tip your hand she’s going to throw herself into “helping.” She’s desperate to be part of the fight, and you’re just as desperate to make sure she doesn’t get hurt trying to keep up.
Problem 3: if you lie to her and then she finds out pretty much immediately when the Big Distraction plays its part, she will be a teenager about it. Hell hath no fury like a little sister lied to for her own good. The last time you tried to sideline her, she deliberately acted out at school. GOTO Problem 1.
So while you chew on that dilemma, waiting in line to present your message to Jerioth ab-Ishtar... tell the truth, how did you pull the strings to get here? And what are you wearing?
***
Canada!
Your ears are ringing. Your head throbs. But when the possible fist to the stomach doesn’t materialize, and neither does being cussed out, you come to the conclusion that you were given a friendship headbutt, not a “you betrayed our friendship” headbutt. So at least that’s working out.
“I appreciate it, Mountie,” Asterion says, offering you a hand to help you unfold, “But haven’t you heard the news?” As your eyes refocus, you see that she’s wearing a ridiculous outfit that’s half police officer and half soldier: a mocking Annunaki skewering of Earth’s “vassal levies.” Her veil’s on the bed, not the floor of her cell; she’ll refuse to wear it as long as she can, that says, but is aware that she’ll have to wear it in the end even if she tosses it on the ground or bunches it up. “I’m not exactly, uh, you know...” She spins one finger next to her head. Around her neck, the ostentatious artifact collar glows ominously, precisely carved runes dug deep into its surface leering at you.
“You’re smarter than this, Mountie,” she adds, giving you a “no hard feelings” smile with more than a little pain behind it. “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns.”
[Asterion is raising your Superior and lowering your Danger. Accept or reject?]
You are admitted into a side chamber, and as ever, you step through first and assess, your thumb on the catch for your Chastening Rod. You catch the breath of the one they sent to handle your lady with velvet and honey become a satisfied exhalation as she consciously sets her shoulders and drapes one hand over her thigh in unspoken invitation to make yourself at ease; you are satisfied that the high visual noise of the chamber is not concealing a hidden assailant; you catch the scent of Dawn Roses, a subtle but lingering guest. All this in a moment, and then you stand aside and allow your lady entrance.
It has not gone unnoticed to you how, like children, the savages on this planet aped your lady unknowingly. Their puffed-up heroes had capes, and so does she, but hers is rich, lush midnight woven from Cold Worms, who subsist on only the cold light of their twice-condemned planet’s star. Their heroes wore tight bodysuits, and so does she, except hers is a hand-trained Cuckoo that languidly swirls its toxic colors across her body, a second and far more useful skin. And their heroes wore armor, and so does she, though hers is made of fine-etched platinum leaves treated to violently deflect force. But no native was as fine, as lovely; her tight-laced bun and trailing tails shine like burnished copper, and the eyes above her veil are serene, a soft grey that betrays nothing.
“In the name of Ishtar, Generous Star, She who brings forth the child, She whose eye is incisive, I bid you welcome, Inquisitor,” the handler says. “I have been instructed to comply with your every wish, given the long and praise-worthy relationship between our Houses. Glory to you, o keepers of peace, you who measure truth and muzzle discord!”
“I require the compliance of your security,” your lady says, her voice a blade sharpened against silk. Ten thousand years of pack instincts left unchanged by the gods sink their teeth into your spine: Alpha! Pack leader! Submit! Your pulse races, your breath hitching and fur rippling for a glorious needful moment. “I am invoking the Decree of the Hunt, in lawful manner, in the pursuit of my duties before my Warden and my goddess, She whose fangs are unseen by night, Hungry Star who teaches holy contempt. I require that this addition to your command structure be immediate and binding until such time as I release you from obligation.” The servant of Ishtar wilts immediately, unconsciously letting herself go slack in the face of your lady, who is as inexorable as an iceberg.
“But, surely,” the blessed servant stammers. (It is important for you to both remember that the Annunaki are of higher nature, and to remember that your tongue is commanded to silence regarding the flaws your lady uncovers in them. Every kit new to their service succumbs to careless speech; the sensible only do so once.) “You must understand that we are in festival, that there are protocols, that the disturbance, what am I to say to the Hierophant?”
“Tell her the truth,” your alpha says, resting one suggestive hand on the back of the chair made ready for her. (She rarely sits in the presence of those she judges. She, and you, must be either statues or holy monsters.) “Tell her that Annan ab-Ereshkigali, Pursuant of the Mysteries, hunts rebellion. And from there, trust to the long and praise-worthy history between our houses.” She pauses a strategic moment. “May I?” She says, and gestures to you.
“But of course, if you deem it needful,” the servant of Ishtar says, and means: if you insist. But your lady would not have asked if she did not mean to follow through. Your spine flashes electric as you hold yourself still, a well-trained huntress, the fur around your collar rippling delight and want.
“Mra’al: seek.”
***
Justin (3rd Dagger, 7th Lance, 4th Legion)!
The dumb humming is the worst part. Sure, electronics hum too, but they don’t make a tune out of it.
Your whole life, you’ve been what might politely be called a social climber. The jealous idiots, back when you went to high school, called you a brownnoser. But you know that working for whoever’s in charge is a whole lot better than raging powerlessly on the outs. So you passed Janissary training with flying colors. And now you’re here: trying to pay attention to three windows and the scenes flashing across them all at the same time in case the stupid genie misses something. Because if there’s one thing you learned early in training, it’s that genies are stupid, but that’s what makes them such good interfaces with the city. You have to be as smart as your masters to do anything useful with them.
Wait. What was that? There was a visual anomaly. Or was there? Raq Tar is your senior, and he didn’t say anything; if you make a big fuss about a flicker and it turns out to be nothing, you’ll look stupid. You keep your mouth shut. Now, if only the stupid genie would.
“Hey,” you say, and nudge at her with your boot. She reacts like it’s made of genie repellent, instinctively folding herself into a graceful pretzel to avoid touching you. “Shut up.”
Her automatic (automated?) response is drowned out by the sound of Raq Tar crumpling like a tin can. A superhero(???!) dressed up like one of the Annunaki, only without the veil, bounces nimbly off him and right at you. Where the hell did she come from?
A smarter guard would immediately tell Caphtor to sound the alarm. But you’re off-balance, and you learned early in training to lash out at anyone who’s not your superior when off-balance, so you swing the butt of your musket at her like a club, intending to smack her across the room like a golf ball.
The stupid genie goes “oooooh!” and watches with her hands in her lap, because, as mentioned before, genies are stupid airheads.
***
Étoile!
It’s too late. You tear your eyes away as fast as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel her eyes, hot and intent on the back of your head. You’ve been made, and now things have suddenly become much more dangerous. Because now that she knows you’re here, there’s no way your little sister isn’t going to insist on trying to help.
She’s wearing a tight silver silk number with elaborate pauldrons and ruffs billowing down her front, and the way it minimizes her from the hips down and bulks her up makes her look almost like a champagne glass. A red ribbon tied around one manacle shows that she is an Academy student on a live test.
Problem 1: if Celestine gets distracted trying to maneuver her way over to you, or worse, ditches the test entirely, the bad grade will eventually (as report cards wind their way to their destination) be taken out on your hiney. You have explained this to her before and she gets petulant and digs her heels in.
Problem 2: Celestine knows you’re here, which means that she’s going to ask you if you’re here to you know what, and if you tip your hand she’s going to throw herself into “helping.” She’s desperate to be part of the fight, and you’re just as desperate to make sure she doesn’t get hurt trying to keep up.
Problem 3: if you lie to her and then she finds out pretty much immediately when the Big Distraction plays its part, she will be a teenager about it. Hell hath no fury like a little sister lied to for her own good. The last time you tried to sideline her, she deliberately acted out at school. GOTO Problem 1.
So while you chew on that dilemma, waiting in line to present your message to Jerioth ab-Ishtar... tell the truth, how did you pull the strings to get here? And what are you wearing?
***
Canada!
Your ears are ringing. Your head throbs. But when the possible fist to the stomach doesn’t materialize, and neither does being cussed out, you come to the conclusion that you were given a friendship headbutt, not a “you betrayed our friendship” headbutt. So at least that’s working out.
“I appreciate it, Mountie,” Asterion says, offering you a hand to help you unfold, “But haven’t you heard the news?” As your eyes refocus, you see that she’s wearing a ridiculous outfit that’s half police officer and half soldier: a mocking Annunaki skewering of Earth’s “vassal levies.” Her veil’s on the bed, not the floor of her cell; she’ll refuse to wear it as long as she can, that says, but is aware that she’ll have to wear it in the end even if she tosses it on the ground or bunches it up. “I’m not exactly, uh, you know...” She spins one finger next to her head. Around her neck, the ostentatious artifact collar glows ominously, precisely carved runes dug deep into its surface leering at you.
“You’re smarter than this, Mountie,” she adds, giving you a “no hard feelings” smile with more than a little pain behind it. “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns.”
[Asterion is raising your Superior and lowering your Danger. Accept or reject?]
