Balmas

Fellowship: The Heart

Sasha whines uneasily and backs away as the water laps at her feet.

That's all Coleman needs to dive away towards the little falling fox body. Sasha knows enough, now, to distrust the wiles of the Flood. (And a wry part of him wishes that he or Jackdaw could learn that lesson.)

The platforms are slippery, soaked in a flood of salty brine. All that's needed is one tug at the right moment to send the wolf sprawling, and enough force forward to keep her from scrambling up while he drags her forward.

"There! Crew!"

[11 on Overcome]

Breathless Dead

"Ackpft!"

Muscles spring and the wolf sails across the room like a tossed doll.

Shit. Shit! Alexa's on her feet in a second and moving. Careless! Stupid!

Epistia is already slowly climbing to her feet by the time Alexa arrives, and the look in Epistia's eyes freezes her cold. Of course she's not allowed to have this. Of course she's ruined her chances before they even began. And of course, Epistia's in good with Redana, and now she's doubly screwed. One word to the wise and she's history.

Epistia dusts herself off, rigorously checking herself for injuries before fixing Alexa with another cool, evaluating stare. Of course. That's her right. What was Alexa thinking, she could have been hurt, could have been--

And Epistia gives a single, slow, deliberate wag of her tail.

Mental gears grind abruptly. She can't-- That's not-- Is that allowed? She can just--

Epistia turns, tail swiishing, and walks slowly towards one of the training blocks. But just before she turns the corner, she turns to meet Alexa's eyes.

It takes a few seconds for the thoughts to process, but Alexa hesitantly smiles. Because she knows what that look means. It means mischief, it speaks of hope, and right now? It says, "well, aren't you gonna come get me?"

Alexa takes a step, and that's all Isty needs to bolt.

"You little brat, get back here!" And for a time, the room is full of nothing but whooping, laughter, and the sounds of two idiots chasing each other.

Breathless Dead

Alexa casts the spear aside without a second thought.

Molech didn't want her to learn wrestling, did you know that? It's not proper. It's not the way he taught her to fight. It's not intimidating, it's not glorious, it's not beautiful. More importantly, it's not lethal--you see a threat to the throne, you put it down then and there, and let the drips off the spearhead inform the rest of that meeting. Wrestling is a peon's game, Alexa, and not fit for she who is created of War.

There's a pang that Isty didn't throw herself into this of her own volition. Then again, it's not like Alexa invited her here for wrestling, right?

Right. Right.

She throws herself into the blows, two arms covering her head and the other two vice-gripping themselves around Isty's waist in a steamroller bullrush. It's awkward, and the blows rain down in the approach, but that's the goal--let her vent her fury, her frustration, in a way that won't get either of them hurt.

She's wondered, before, how to make Ares happy. It cannot be enjoyable to be trapped inside your own head, even if your own head is temporarily somebody else's. Does he destroy because he enjoys it? Because chaos is what he is? Or is there another reason?

The slam against the steel box knocks the breath out of both of them, but more importantly it knocks the butt of the spear from Isty's grasp. Alexa kicks it away before the Ceronian can grab it again, and devotes two of her arms to controlling the other end. At this range, neither can bring it to bear effectively, but that doesn't keep Isty from trying.

She would never call it a tantrum out loud. Calling it anything out loud is a good way to attract undue attention. Besides, tantrum doesn't really fit, does it? To call Ares' destruction a tantrum is like calling the core of the ship a bit hot, but more than that, "Tantrum" arrogantly declares that the issue is childish, unimportant. "Protest" might be a better fit.

Alexa spots her chance, and brings her forehead down in a sledgehammer headbutt. It's not enough to hurt either of them, really--they're both built for war--but the disorientation grants her precious seconds. She flips the princess against the wall, wraps her in a headlock, brings her legs up to lock them around Isty's thighs, and lets gravity pull them backwards.

And now, it's just a matter of riding it out. Let Isty scream, let her howl, let her reach backwards and claw at whatever she can reach. Alexa is tough. She can take it. She can endure. She can protect until the fury is spent, until the chaos is tired, and Ares allows his chosen a brief peace.

She doesn't even realize she's buried her face in Isty's hair or started murmuring until a bit of hair slips into her mouth. She pauses, but decides to keep up the steady stream of--not quite whispering or even talking, but a constant murmur of sound. Just letting her know that when she comes back, Alexa will be there.

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman considers, briefly, saying something along the lines of "Seven, but we can get by with four." But it's not a good idea to start a lie to a stranger that's so easily disproven by just looking at the New Arrivals board.

And that's a long list of possible threats. He frowns, and taps his chin in thought. Bonecrackers are an unknown, and therefore something to tackle once he's gathered his crew. Ditto the angel, with a side of "not fucking with that." Of the remaining three...

"How quickly can you guide us to the rats?"

Breathless Dead

"Oh. My. Gosh."

Alexa is so busy goggling over the thrown training spear that she nearly gets beaned by the follow-up shield. But can you blame her? It's her first spear! She's finally allowed to train for real! She's seen the soldiers with them before, in between the furious lessons and books, but up until now she's been forced to learn things like strategy and theory and logistics and eugh.

It's just a spear like any of the dozens in the barracks, probably mass-produced by a factory somewhere. But it lodges in her hand like it's a part of her that she didn't know was missing. It feels right, feels natural, and almost without thinking the spear leads her through the drills she's seen the soldiers perform. This... this is what she's for!

"Wrong."

She winces, and shoots a tentative grin at the sergeant. He's one of the nicer soldiers, she thinks--one of the officers that pretends he doesn't see her, so long as she doesn't force his hand by being too obvious about it.

The sergeant doesn't return the smile, but there's a twinkle in the corner of his eyes that keeps Alexa from giving up too quickly. He strides across and quickly adjusts her stance--kicks her ankles into being further apart, shoves the speartip further up, straightens her back, shoves the shield into place.

"You've got the right motions," he grudgingly admits. "Or at least, a not hopeless start at 'em. But you haven't got the right mindset. Now listen close."

***

Even now, picking up a spear feels like the most correct thing in the world.

She closes her eyes and lets the warmth of the spear radiate out through her. Lets it center her, complete her, carry her through the motions of the drill. Allows the words--long buried, but not forgotten--to rise up in memory.

"This is as close as it is possible to come to a perfect war."

Step. Swish. Crack. The impact of spear on spear rattles down to her fingertips and, without opening her eyes, Alexa smiles. Isty has some good instincts.

"Two champions, alone in an arena, with no intention to kill or harm."

Faster now. Test her reflexes. See how far instinct takes her. Hold back for now. You've hurt people without meaning to before. Let her get warmed up.

"I wish that all wars could be so fought."

In practice, of course, that just means that whichever side fields the strongest champion has free reign to do as they like until someone comes to dethrone them. Was that Molech's plan? Make the strongest warrior ever to rule eternally? Was she the backup or--

Alexa grunts as the distraction earns her a thrust in the gut.

"Are you--"

"Fine. I am fine."

And yet, she's smiling. It's been a while since she could simply relax into this. Could trust someone else not to get hurt. But Isty managed a touch on her! That's incredible! Can you imagine what she could be with proper training?

But, she has a point to make. And here, she admits she's paraphrasing on Sergeant Ridder's shpiel. Isty, wars are not fought alone.

Isty's spearthrust is poorly aimed, but Alexa steps into it, catches it on a forearm. It lets her thrust past Isty, into the space to her left. An imaginary phalanx member gurgles, clutching a gash in her neck, which gives the imaginary

It's an imperfect illustration, she knows. And somehow, Isty doesn't get it. Doesn't understand why Alexa is making these boneheaded mistakes, one after another, and stabbing at nothing. But if she doesn't take the blows, then who will? The people behind her, of course. She is their shield, their protector, and shields don't complain about scratches.

She wishes shields could complain about not making their point clearly.

Breathless Dead

That's the worst thing. She knows exactly what Isty's talking about. It's just not something she knows how to talk about.

But maybe...

She straightens, and dares to offer a hand to Isty. "If it pleases you, perhaps I may show you."

***

It's not possible for any one arena to perfectly prepare troops for battle. There will always be an unforeseen twist, an unexpected kink in the plans. But the designers of the Plousios had at least done their best. A wide parade ground can, with the addition of massive steel blocks, become a tight hallway, a wide battle ground, a trench, and more.

Alexa opens the cabinet and pulls out a training spear. "My apologies for the lack of proper accomodations. I cannot promise that the Plousios is equipped with scythes. I understand that is your weapon of choice?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at Isty because it's better than watching Hades shuffle through the cards. Honestly, what's the point of cheating at solitaire?

Isty looks so innocent. Was she ever like that? Does she remember a day when she could think of a battle and be excited for the glory she would win? Could think of it simply as a job like washing clothing or selling goods, which could be practiced and perfected and, at the end of the day, left behind?

She hasn't seen the chaos Ares wreaks in battle. Hasn't seen a ship torn in two by a core explosions and hasn't had to avoid thinking too hard about what all the little dots are that show up so dark amongst the Thunderer's canvas. Hasn't been in the push, watched a comrade's hair raise on their neck, smelled that acrid tang, heard the electric whine, and recognized too late that the skirmishers failed to reach that esoteric in time. Hasn't looked out towards the enemy camp and hoped the auguries come back negative because it means that everyone wins the grand prize of Tomorrow.

"It is"--and here, in the presence of the god of death, she picks her words with the same care a bomb defuser might choose a wire--"not so simple as that. I do not mind if I am chosen to to die in battle. I have long known that it is how it will happen. But--"

But what? But she doesn't want to hurt people? But she cares too much? But she can't help but see faces of friends long gone in the ranks of the enemy? But she can't help thinking that there's a better way than us or them? But what gives her the right to take somebody else's life simply because they happen to be on a strategically important hill? But what gives the brass the right to deem that they should own that strategically important hill? But there's no glory to be had in running roughshod over some servitors who'd like nothing better than to go home?

"--I cannot like it."

Dammit.

Fellowship: The Heart

Don't meet her eyes, or you'll feel sorry for her.

But that's the rub, innit? When you're not looking at somebody's face, you see everything else. The way the clothing probably used to fit, but now dangles off of too-guant ribs. The blood under the nails--hers, or somebody else's? But that jacket has his entire attention.

See, the color's faded, but he recognizes that cut, that pattern. Last he remembers, it was the uniform for the Sly Weasel, and he's racking his brain to try to recall the last rumors he heard about them. Did they crash here like he and Sasha? 0-6-0 freight hauler, he thinks. Not too dissimilar from Mighty Natascha--although, of course, infinitely worse in every way. Crew didn't even care enough to polish her.

What happened?

The carabiner ratchets again and digs into his throat, the wolf obviously impatient. "We both want out," he chokes out, "but you hurt me and Sasha won't help. And we can't leave til I find the rest."

[Talk Sense: 8-9 depending on whether this is Sense or Wisdom. Partial either way.]

Breathless Dead

"How do you do that?" she does not say.

Although... Redana isn't here. And Isty has requested that she treat her as an equal. Theoretically then, questions might be allowed?

She decides it's worth the risk. Isty probably doesn't know enough about her to target her real weak points, and besides, Vasilia wouldn't make it easy on her either.

"How do you do that? How do you... simply accept your purpose like that?"

Is she defective? Is that it? Is that why she doesn't want to do the one thing she was designed for? Is that why the Ceronians find it so easy, is because they aren't broken? It'd be a comforting thought if it didn't seem so impossible. The Warsage and the very incarnation of perfect War make a mistake when creating her, but the Ceronians are perfect?

She studies her feet before continuing. "How do you come to grips with that? With knowing that your sole purpose in creation is war? To destroy on command? Please, I appreciate that I am asking above my station, but I must know."

Fellowship: The Heart

Oh fuck.

***

clang. clang. clang.

"Come away from the windows, Coleman."

clang. clang. clang.

"But my friend's out there!"

clang. clang. clang.

"That's not Jerry."

And then Gramps ushered him off to the sleeping car. But Coleman never forgot the look on Jerry's face--it had to be Jerry--as he sprinted across the platform, waving his hands, eyes locked on Coleman's and mouthing 'please' over and over.

***

Ooooooh fuck. Priority number one is to get Sasha off the tracks. A train could come barreling through here any second now--any engineer worth their salt will avoid this place like the plague, but sometimes things don't line up the way you want and a diversion through here is the only way through.

Priority two: no eye contact. Nobody really knows what the things that live here are, and believe me, every crew has their own version. Are they a doomed sacrifice by the first layers of rail? Is that what needs to happen, is that all the misfortunes somehow aren't real if there aren't passengers to witness it? Are they a damned crew who sinned against some primordial train and have been condemned to wander the platforms for all time? No matter the story, there's a common thread to the stories--you can never meet their eyes. Or... or what? Or your soul will be stolen, and the Not-A-You will ride away in your skin and leave you there? Or your train will lack the energy it needs to escape?

Personally, Coleman's explanation is if you meet their eyes, and see the desperation there, the only way to live with yourself is to stop the train.

Priority three: Find the rest of his team and pray the other rumors about Wormwood aren't true.

[7 on Look Closely.
-Tell me about the other people on the platform. How could they hurt me? How could they help me?
-Tell me about my friends. What are they doing? What will they do next?]