Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa seizes the tentacle and pumps it enthusiastically. "Finally, somebody who understands proper civility! A pleasure, to be sure. I am Alexa, born of the Warsage."

Although, she thinks as she keeps the bright smile fixed on her face, the bars and lack of a proper desk do somewhat detract from the office-ness of this office. And there's very little

"And I, too, hope that you can help me. I am given to understand that you are capable of moving the Eater of Worlds, even in its current state. If it pleases you, I would have your assistance in navigating the paperwork and bureaucracy that no doubt accomplishes such a gargantuan task."

Gah. This is weird. Normally, it would be child's play to find the levers on a petty bureaucrat--pride, envy, the odd murdering of an annoying superordinate--but there are so many levers at play here that it's hard to find one to focus on. And, if she's being honest, the tentacles waving around are--gmfhp. Yes. Distracting. That might be more the issue.

[Alexa's dice strike again: 4 on Speak Softly.
-What do they want, and how could I help them get it?
-What can they tell me about moving the Eater of Worlds?
-What should I be wary of when dealing with them?]

Breathless Dead

Alexa opens her mouth.

Alexa shuts her mouth.

No, that's fine. Totally fine. Unorthodox, but undeniably effective. Totally fine. Not a problem.

I mean, sure, Vasilia ordered that she and Alexa should take the lead. Sure, that means that they'd have had no answer to this phalanx but to find another passageway with fewer guards in it. Sure, that's robbed Galnius of any glory from this fight, and the bulky soldier is glaring daggers. It's fine. Totally fine.

You know what would be even finer? Is helping out.

Still, she can't help but feel that little niggle that something is wrong. These soldiers do not fight as they should. Do not act to preserve themselves, do not show fear. Any general would be thrilled to have soldiers that disciplined, but it feels unnatural.

Fellowship: The Heart

In the train, a kobold sits, staring blankly at a bit of... bit of whatsit. S'hard, he thinks. S'got squiggles on, and he wishes he knew what they mean. It seems important.

S'gotta be, right? He wouldn't just--

The things outside are singing again. Sounds awful. Like drinking a cuppa without

Without what, though? For that matter, what's a cuppa?

Gingerly, he holds the whatsit close, and lets a claw drag across its face. Whatever it is, it's pretty. All shiny. S'got pictures on--and there's a thrill that runs through him. Pictures! He knows what those are!

His seat rumbles, and he almost looks away from the-- the. Whatsitcalled? Something this shiny and with so many pictures feels like it ought to have an important name. He oughtta know what the name is. Something like this is worth remembering.

Breathless Dead

Alexa sits against the wall, almost motionless, and lets the sheep's clever fingers do their work.

Honestly, it's amazing how deft his motions are. She's seen him in the kitchen, preparing meals, and always he makes it seem so simple. His knifework is impeccable, flowing, like an extension of his arm, no matter what technique is called for. It's almost like the universe is mocking her. Put a spear in her hands and tell her to pin it to a target from fifty yards, and she'll split a hair on the bullseye. But give her a knife and an onion, and--well, the less said about that dinner, the better.

It must be nice to be so sure of yourself. So able to focus, to know exactly what you're supposed to be, what role you need to fill. Is it that wrong to wish to trade places? To be soft, to know what to say, to know how to help? To spend all your time making other people happy with food, wise words, and friendship?

She winces as the chisel hits an unexpected snag, and does her best to keep her face turned away from him. He doesn't need to see this. It's not important. It's a function of existence, is repair. Ideally, she'd have been able to pick up the chunks that got chipped off so they could be cemented back in place, but in the mean time, sandpaper and chisel will have to just prepare a rough surface for the bronze and keep more stone from chipping loose.

But of course, they could never swap. She could never force him to take her position. It wouldn't be fair to him.

Breathless Dead

Every word hits like a sledgehammer blow. All of this pain, and suffering, because she was too dense to follow simple instructions. Had to fight! Had to glory hound! Had to be the big warrior queen! Couldn't wait for instructions, couldn't follow what she had, and--

And Dolce and Vasilia suffer for it.

Honestly, it's not fair that she can't hug him how she'd like. Can't wrap all four arms around him and squeeze until all the hurt and panic leaves. Can't just bury her face in his wool, breath in, and hold him until the shaking stops. Can't stop trembling herself, and hold on for dear life. But she can't. Needs to hold back, be cautious, be ever mindful of struggling, hitching in breath, anything to indicate that she's holding on too hard.

Still, even if it's not ideal, this is. This is nice.

Nicer than somebody like her deserves.

She gently pulls him in closer, and tucks his head under her chin. (His fur is so soft, it's not fair.) "Listen," she murmurs. "None of this is your fault. It is mine for not being there for you. Mine for challenging Jas'o instead of listening to Vasilia. We are going to fix this. And when it is done and your Vasilia is back, you shall have a boon of me. Ask what you will, whatever you will, and I shall destroy myself to bring it to pass."

Breathless Dead

“So, your former Admiral; has a taste for chains and gags, does she?”

@TheAmishPirate

Huh. Genuinely didn't peg her as that, but perhaps it might be worth cultivating that acquain--

"What?" said Galnius. "No. She's into gold."

@Thanqol

Oh. Drat.

And this is why she's awful, you know that right? Is because she's sitting here distracted by thoughts of good times when the evidence of her crimes is before her.

She bows awkwardly, and then springs upright again like a puppet with rusty joints. "Of course, Captain. I will follow your orders in the baths." One long stone arm snakes out and wraps around Dolce's shoulder. "Could I count on your assistance, please? I will require your aid in chiseling the spots I cannot reach."

And it's not a lie, she tells herself as she gently but firmly walks the sheep around a corner. She does need help to reach the nasty exit wound in her shoulder, and sanding and abrasion are better with someone else doing it. But the main reason is immediately apparent the second they're more than two corners away, and she can wrap the small sheep in a bear hug and squeeze for all she's worth, and let the dam of apologies come down. It's a babble of words that all run together, but "I'm sorry" and "What happened" feature prominently.

Fellowship: The Heart

"So boring," she said, a blazing hot specter of Impatience rising above and around her. She cupped her hands and addressed Coleman: "Hey! Short stuff!" it was okay when she said it. "Can't you make this hunk of garbage go any faster?"

@Thanqol

Getting a hand over Ailee's mouth is a journey in itself, because the universe clearly is poorly designed by people who have never had to get a stool to reach high shelves. He clambers up Lucien, sticks a toeclaw through a belt loop for balance, and--

And the dratted mouse has the sheer indecency to laugh and cover her own mouth before he can get there. Not fair, universe. Not fair at all.

"Never," he hisses, doing his level best to keep the train from hearing, "ask a train to go fast unless you've done your due diligence to clear the path."

Dammit, this is not a dignified position from which to administer correction. Still, he rallies magnificently. See the way he stands, like a gentleman adventurer clinging to the peak of a frost-ridden summit? Tall and proud and noble? Definitely not questioning his choice of support, no sir.

"Words for the wise," he finishes. "We go carefully."

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at Vasilia, a knot forming in her gut and the breath catching in her throat.

"What happened?" she does not say. It is there, poised on the tip of her tongue, but it is fighting with all the other things trying to get out: I am so sorry, I should have been there, You should not have had to face whatever did this to you alone, This is my fault, If I had not disobeyed I would have been there to help you, I am so sorry, and on and on forever.

And the look on the poor sheep's face, he knows it. She will need to do something special for them both to make up for today. Hera and Zeus, what must be going through his mind right now?

Hades, she's waiting. Alexa forces a swallow, before offering a gentle "Many thanks," to Galnius. They have done more than their fair share.

Her leg twinges with every step, but she is not allowed to show pain. She must be strong and graceful, no matter how her ankle screams for bronze to fill the hole. Just long enough to cross the room. Five seconds, or maybe a millenium, that is all.

Her parade rest is perfect, because of course it must be, no matter how she wants to scream when she meets the captain's Hades-cursed vision. "Jas'o is with Redana," she reports, "and I must advise against confronting him in this moment. Athena has ordained his triumph, and he is"--do not look at the new holes in her stone, please--"an expert shot. Instead, Hera has commanded that we find and coerce a minor bureaucrat to move this titan from its space. It is a good tactical decision, if for no other reason than to remove the Armada from the equation."

She pauses, and follows up with, "What would you have me do, Captain?"

Breathless Dead

Twice, in the same day.

That, almost more than anything else, stings the most. More than the twitching (constant), more than the electricity coursing through her legs, more than being jostled like a sack of flour because apparently Galnius has never learned a fireman's carry, seriously, we're having a training meeting if we survive. Athena has turned against her. Zeus, Poseidon, and her mother all conspire to grant Jas'o his victory.

But Hera has not yet abandoned her. It is that thought that gives her the strength to gasp out, "Left!" She cannot face Jas'o in this state. But hopefully, she can find this official who can grant Hera her wish. Left, if she recognizes the design of the palace--and she's been around a few--should take them away from the grand courtyard, and towards the smaller servant's quarters.

Now if only Galnius can be trusted to carry her away from glory, and she's not entirely sure they will.

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman is out of the train in a flash, and giving Sasha the pat-down of her life. Who's the best train? She is, of course, and she's earned an extra rich dose of fuel tonight--it's oak, your favorite! You don't like that coarse stuff we normally source, but this is special, just for you. Apparently some rich bureaucrat bit it, and you know they didn't need their desk, so I managed to score some of the worksurface just for you! And then we've got a polishing cloth, and you've been such a good girl who just needs love and care, and to press just that little bit more on because we can't stop for too long or else the cave collapses, but you've done oh so very well, good job Sasha! Yes you did~!