Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa pauses, weed in hand.

She's not actually sure whether it's a weed or not? It's thornier than the rest of the greenery, certainly. Stem is thicker, veiny, and coarse. And the roots go deep, tangling with the roots of the trees and binding like arcane knots.

It's the perfect reason to get down in the dirt, though. She's filthy from the knees down. Mud squelches moistly between her toes. And her fingernails have a pleasant thickness underneath them where dirt has gotten stuck in the crevices. If her father could but see her today...

But she's making a difference! See where she's watered, how the dirt is darker? How the purple buds of the delicate flowers under the weeds perk up, seek out the light? It's simple, dirty work, but...

It's immensely satisfying to see where the world is better for her being there. Carefully, she tosses the weed onto the pile and reminds herself to take the lot out of the garden--no sense in doing all this work and then letting the pile take root again.

Still, she keeps her eyes on the dog as she slowly gets to her feet, brushes the dust off her knees. See, boy? Hands out, palms up. Go on, give her a sniff. Smell that? Smells like friends, doesn't it?

It's in bad shape. Probably painted at some point, though the soil and rust haven't done it any favors in that area. Not any markings she recognizes, or, if it comes to that, a model she's familiar with. So, not a castoff of Molech, refurbished into a pet. Something older?

It snuffles against her palm, and then walks--no, limps, she sees--back to the ball. One leg drags against the ground, and so its entire rear end hopskips as it noses the ball towards Alexa.

How long has it been since this old dog got to chase a ball? Got to run, legs pistoning, tongue lolling?

She allows a smile, and sits down next to the dog. "Come, let us get you fixed up. And then we can play, okay?"

Breathless Dead

Once, there was a fence. See, right there, where the ground dips? The firmer stones, arranged in a line, that must have held fenceposts? Grass plays along it, grows greener where the remains have fallen, decomposed, and become more fertile soil. And that patch of mossy cobble--so unusual in its straightness--can only have been a shed of some sort. She almost expects a figure to emerge, pick up a rake or a trowel, and continue to care for its orchard.

Because that's what this is. This is no random group of trees, run wild where the seeds first fell. This is a place of care, of nurture, and she would dearly love to know what drove its first planters away. Were they humans, scooped up in Nero's galaxy-wide collection? Servitors, tending it on behalf of their masters? Did something happen to them that would mark this as a place of danger? Should she be concerned for those around her?

It would be a terrible thing to be caught unawares on a strange planet. But as she picks her way along the fenceline, admiring the trees, she can't convince herself they're in danger. And surely...

Well, surely the Alcedi must be able to spot the danger better than she can? The Princess is well-guarded. There is no threat here. Surely, surely, she must be able to...

Well, to take some time for herself?

Finally, she finds the spot where two fenceposts must have been closer together. And the grass here bursts from between small stones, the remains of a path. Yes, this must have been the entrance.

She debates whether she ought to follow the path back the other way. It must lead somewhere, certainly? A farmhouse, perhaps? A ruined city? Or perhaps this simply fell into ruin because other orchards, more prosperous ones, are in use?

The thought brings a twinge to her chest. That this could be abandoned--such a lovely spot! How the reflections from the debris play across the leaves, paint them in shades of orange and purple, cast bands of blues and yellows through the grass--the thought brings a twinge through her chest.

Right.

Carefully, gingerly, she takes off her shoes. Places them outside the gate. Folds the long outer clothing neatly, brushes off a patch of dew-soaked grass, places the bundle next to her shoes. Lowers the Aegis and spear to the ground, neatly, carefully.

And then, facing the orchard, she bows deeply.

It is her privilege to be here, in this place, at this time, enjoying the fruits of those who so dearly cared for it. It's in disrepair now, but this was once a place of love. And now that she's here, she intends to make it one again.

Breathless Dead

At this point, being useless would be the very gift of the gods.

Useless would mean that the exercise in pincer tactics would end in squabbling and infighting, instead of having her mock forces cut apart and routed. Useless would mean that the spear in her hand would feel unfamiliar, but not so awkward that she's a danger to those around her. Useless would mean that everywhere she go, she might see exasperation from people, but at least she would see people. People would not make awkward excuses, or turn abruptly when they see her entering the hall, or have conversations drop out around her.

Useless, in short, would mean not making things worse for being present.

How great her folly must seem! She, who truly believe that she was the greatest fighter alive! Heir to the greatest tradition of strategy, recipient of the finest training! She, who felt she must restrain herself, lest her unreleased fury harm those around her! How great the folly of Molech, to imagine that by codifying rules of war, he could cage her, bind her! She has displeased the goddess of war, and like that, her vaunted skills take flight and leave her worse than she started.

What is she, if not the greatest warrior? If she's not that, then what does that leave for her to be? What's left behind when you cut away the trappings of the warrior princess?

She wanders the hall, dodging the faces of those who must surely be able to see the cloud following her. Is she running away? Running towards? Just moving, to leave the thoughts behind? If she can just find a spot to make her stand, plead her case--

Then what? She's worse than useless as is--Athena turns her plans to ashes, spites her efforts, brings whispers of curses as she passes. But if she goes back-- Back to being as she was--

The thought sits in her chest like a brick. She has to appease Athena if this journey is to succeed. Has to make recompense for the murder of her father, if the gods would smile on her again. But what does that mean? How?

And so she wanders, not even knowing what she's looking for but knowing it's not here.

Breathless Dead

"You know, I used to think that too?"

Hooboy, did she. Redana had doomed them all with her idiotic vision! She'd pitted the four of them against the might and wealth of empire! It was just a matter of time until they got captured, or eaten by monsters, or thrust into the heart of a star. She'd gotten an idea in her head, and was so used to her palace that she hadn't thought how to make it happen or the risks to those around her.

But...

Offerings, carefully made on altars. A listening ear, in midst of crab battle.

"And maybe, setting out, that would have been true. But I feel if you were to give her a chance, she might suprise you. She is not so innocent now as she was."

She's changed. They all have.

Fellowship: The Heart

Not everything can be blamed on Wormwood, but it'd be damn nice to think that this could have been avoided.

So, can't fight. Running could have been an option, but he and Sasha are running towards it. He scans the wisdom passed down from his pappy for ways to survive, and mostly finds "don't be here." Practical, but not very useful.

He crosses the distance to Jackdwaw in two strides, and huddles behind the cart. "I sure hope you know how we can get Lucien back," he says, "because I'm pretty sure Sasha won't survive fighting that. What've you got?"

Breathless Dead

It's amazing how you never really notice the ceiling, right? Walls and floors and furniture get so much more credit in daily life. Has this section of the Plousios always had vines running along and around the beams? She stares up at the flowers, picks out blossoms, admires the way the bioluminescence shifts and coruscates, painting the ceiling in soft pastels.

What even can she say?

"At least you had a chance to fuck up?" Bitter. Biting. Not really helpful. Takes the question and shoves it back in her face. We didn't fuck up! Bella got hoodwinked and locked in a closet! I was stolen, kidnapped, shanghai'd into piloting a ship! What's your excuse, Mynx? What were you doing while Redana escaped? What was I supposed to do, cosh her in the head, fight off the other two, and singlehandedly fly a ship back through the depths of space?

Although... Well, that might have been true, back when they started. There genuinely probably wasn't something she could have done then. But.. Back in the eater of worlds? Backed up by Bella, Galnius? Redana gagged, no ability to command her? She could have turned this around, then. She chose not to.

Why?

She could have gone home. Gone back to her niche. Forgotten about the worlds she'd seen. Could have plead her case to Nero.

Why didn't she go when she had the chance?

"I am." she admits. "Terrified, I mean. I keep thinking that this has to be a fluke. That we cannot keep getting away with it. That when we come back--are brought back by force--Nero will chip me up for a gravel garden, Vasilia and Dolce will be forcibly split up, and Redana will never see daylight again."

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman is not so vain as to think that the Heart will fail without him. He's not here to kill King Dragon or set right the abuses of the monarchy. The shifting pathways to the depths of the Heart are littered with the remains of train eggs and the knights that failed. If he and Sasha don't make it, the only ones to mourn him will probably be the crew of the Mighty Natascha.

But, as he feeds the nugget of coal into Sasha's burner and receives the answering purr, well... Well, the Vermissian's gonna fail with him. It maybe wasn't his fault that Wormwood imploded while he was there, but he was there. Ain't it at least his job to make sure that things don't entirely explode just 'cause he wasn't good enough?

Over his thoughts, though, he can hear the screams, feel the wind. The Carnival is heaving, the screams of tormented passengers turning to screams of joy from the clowns. Something is wrong. The world is red and white and--

He eases the throttle forwards, and Sasha's steps turn to a run.

He should be running away. Sasha comes first, right? If she's crushed by something, then he's not going to be able to help anyone. But if he runs...

If he runs, it's every train for themselves. It's scrabbling over dwindling resources. It's "not my problem."

The world bleaches white and red as he approaches the screams. Bones and crows and clowns, a fury of winds, the Ringmaster in all his glory, like skin stretched over something that's forgotten how to be human, and above it all...

Below it all, Jackdaw and Wolf behind a donut card. Lucien, dangling limply from a fist made of all the wrong bones.

And somewhere in there, a path that lets all of them get out alive.

[5,6,+1. 12 on Look Closely.
-Tell me about the Ringmaster. How could they hurt/help me?
-What will happen if I join in on the Ringmaster's side?
-Tell me about the things summoned by Victory of Crows. How can they hurt/help me?]

Breathless Dead

Alexa gingerly steps over the obvious mine and... Entirely fails to detonate a second, better-hidden mine? That was her icebreaker, Mynx! She was supposed to feel something click underfoot, have just enough time to look up into smirking eyes, and lose Mynx in the blast of gaseous pellets! You're really letting the side down, you know that?

She navigates to the couch, nudging scattered clothing and nibbled-at-but-almost-untouched food out of her path until she has room to sit against the base of the couch.

And now that she's here, back against the mottled, mustard-yellow velour, she doesn't even know what to say.

"She really is not here" is an option. It has its merits. Direct. To the point. Blunt. Can pretend she gives a damn about 'catching the assassin' for the peanut gallery bristling around the door.

Oh, yes, Alexa. Brilliant. She's sad. Throw it in her face, why don't you? I'm sure she'd just love to be reminded of it. Sigh city, population Us.

"Redana talks about you?" Small talk. Great. Remind her of the past, back when they were all just... Well, not friends. Co-workers? Not-not-friends? People who all had Redana as a common link? Wonderful. Highlight that they weren't and, kind of, aren't together.

Geez. Redana makes this friendship thing look so easy.

She examines the merits of "yes, and"-ing Mr. Sergistan. Engages at the level Mynx is currently at? Allows her to slip in a joke about crew manifests, stowaways, and overzealous potential crewmates who, can you believe, think you're an assassin, I mean, how silly is that?

She sighs, lets her head flop back, and joins Mynx in staring at the ceiling.

Receives an answering, heavier sigh.

Yep. That about says it all, doesn't it?

"I still cannot believe how far we have come," she admits.

Breathless Dead

They had to make it a hunt, didn't they?

Had to come in with spears and nets and cries of exultation. Had to hound her like an animal, braying with excitement, from one end of the ship to the other. Had to scramble and whoop, had to fan out, to pincer, to chase.

And now that the moment to strike is finally here, who better to finish her off than the one person who least wants Mynx harmed?

Galnius probably thinks she's doing Alexa a favor. Granting her honor, privilege, prestige.

But it shouldn't have worked, is the thing! Mynx is better than this. Mynx should run circles around them, should vanish like smoke, should disrupt their formations with a wink and a laugh. Alexa keeps looking at the phalanx around her and half expecting one of them to blow her a kiss before disappearing. She should have Galnius profiled and wrapped round her finger, not be backed into a glorified closet!!

Something's wrong. Mynx is off her game, and Alexa's going to find out why.

Galnius grunts as Alexa's spear and shield are shoved into her hands. Does Galnius know the privilege she's been given? View it as a usurper taking her spot? But damned if Alexa's going into this armed. Ha! As if not having a weapon somehow makes the phalanx behind her less threatening, less of an armed mob determined to make her a gift to a princess!

Still, she hesitates as she approaches the closet door. Swallows. Hems a bit, holds a hand up to knock. Decides to compromise, one hand flat on the door, feeling its grain as if she could feel the shapeshifter behind it.

"I am surprised to see you aboard the Plousios," she murmurs. Is she loud enough for Mynx to hear? Is she listening on the other side of the door? Surprised to see her among the gathered hunt? "In truth, I would have thought you to be back with Bella."

Unless... Unless this is the trick, is that Mynx is the distraction, and Bella is also aboard. And any moment, she's going to pop out of a vent, Redana in her arms-- but no. There'd be nowhere to go, not unless she plans to fight an army for command of a ship she cannot run.

Something's definitely wrong.

"Do you want to talk about it, Mynx?"

Breathless Dead

Isty must think her so weak.

Look at her, clinging to Isty like a shipwreck survivor to a liferaft. Didn't take more than scratches in that entire fight--no gashes, no missing limbs, nothing even that won't be fixed with a rasp and some clay. Look at the mighty warrior, faint after the battle! See the Pallas, clinging to her like a teddy bear! This is she who would court a Princess, showing her martial prowess?

But damn her eyes, she needs to have that beacon. That anchor, that sign that she hasn't entirely fucked up. She didn't hare off for sex, ignore her duty, fail to find out the plan, get treated like the rube she is! Needs to press her face against that shoulder, feel that press of thin fur, that warmth against her stone, and hope she isn't entirely ruined.

Hah. Needs to talk to Isty about Ares. What has she done? You know, not too much, just betrayed everything she was raised to believe, touched that live-wire. And worst of all, can't bring herself to regret it. Wants it again, at the same time as she hates herself for wanting it.

***

Alexa returns to a ship full of ghosts.

That's Domingo, the old artillery master! But-- no, no, the beak is right, but the coloration is subtly different. Spots in the wrong places, tattoos missing. A son? Grandson, maybe? And she'd swear up and down that the one carrying the crates into the cargo hold is the spitting image of--but no. No, if it's her old friend Agarra, there's no recognition in their eyes.

That's the pattern, every time. Alexa starts. A comrade! She takes a few steps, and details filter in. Different styles, different feathers, different voices, and everywhere, that blank stare that says "I don't know you."

It's.

It's probably for the best.