Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa bears down on Skotos like a landslide.

It's no use trying to overpower an Azura sphere with muscles alone--you may as well try to overpower a planet's gravity. They must at least limit themselves to what won't damage Skotos's--admittedly surprisingly muscled, for a hermetic initiate?--wrists and ankles, thank goodness.

But she can crush the marbles, grind the stone and glass to dust, scratch the runes to meaninglessness with her nails. There is no artistry, to it. No grace, no beauty, no subtlety. Actually, there's a refreshing element of simplicity to it--just smashing as many marbles as she can, as quickly as she can.

Alexa pulverizes another marble and wonders whether she should enjoy this.

[Overcome: 11.]

"Skotos, how do you feel about philosophers? We should talk to philosophers. Right now would be good."

Breathless Dead

Blessed of Athena. That's a laugh, isn't it?

Surely there's a market here. Some public square. A forum. A bathhouse, even. Just let there be witnesses. Enough people, law-abiding or not, that the bribes and "no, actually you didn't see anything"s get more costly than the profit of kidnapping or slavery.

Scan faces. See who meets her eyes, whose gazes scan across her, who look at her and then quickly make sure they don't see her. Check on Skotos, make sure her orders are being followed. Subtly scan for the thugs. Look for businesses whose doors aren't shuttering before her eyes. Which way is the ship? Can they circle back? Check for Skotos. Check for thugs. Keep eyes on everyone and everything and hope that nothing goes astray or hides or is missed in the increasingly frantic search for something, anything that will keep them from the obvious.

[4 on Look Closely. Tell me about the people of the square. How could they hurt/help me? I find out the answer the hard way.]

Breathless Dead

Alexa is the very picture of the awestruck tourist. See her point, eyes wide, at everything? How she gawks at the ordinary, wonders over the mundane, admires shopkeep's wares as if they were produced by kings and princes?

Damn. Damn! There's no possible way she could have predicted it, but she still should have known! Should have been prepared for this! Should have realized that of course there'd be thugs eager to take advantage of new arrivals!

On the one hand, they have the advantage of unpredictability. They're newcomers, with no set pattern or destination. If they start sprinting right now, there'd be no way the thugs trailing them could know which way they're going.

But that goes both ways. They don't know the lay of the land, which roads go where. There could be an ambush or a funnel or something around the corner, and there'd be know way to know the corner was even there.

"Skotos."

And now she's here, with no support, and a starry-eyed Hermetic looking at her like she's about to pull a miracle out of her ass. Does everyone know who she was? Did-- No, Ramses wouldn't have talked about it to someone else, not after being so helpful and accommodating and instantly accepting.

Damn!

"Skotos, I need you to listen very closely. Good job not looking at them, but we are in trouble. We need witnesses in a hurry--people who will give them pause, keep them from jumping us.

"But if we cannot find that, you need to run. I will hold them off as best I can, but I cannot do that for long, and it will be for nothing if they capture you too. Get to the ship. Find M--er, Redana. Tell her to call me to her side. She will know what to do. Nod if you understand."

Breathless Dead

It is practically impossible to ruin a salad.

And yet, the kitchen is strewn with the corpses of salads past, like the aftermath of a particularly leafy battlefield. This one was too sweet. That one had too much salt. Too much oil. Not enough oil. Wrong kind of leaves. Grabbed the salt instead of the sugar. Croutons didn't complement the texture of the kale. Wrong dressing. Tomatoes chopped too large. Tomatoes chopped too small? She's never had to think what "bite-size" is for a god, and this has to be perfect.

Once more, she inspects it, scrutinizing it from every angle. If you make everything small, you sidestep the size issue, so in theory this salad should be perfect. Apples and grapes from the gardens, some nuts she's ground to fragments in her palm, and most curious of all, chunks of celery.

She pokes the celery suspiciously. Sweet, sweet, savory... water. And bitter water, at that. The acrid plant seems almost traitorous mixed in with its brethren, but the cookbook insisted it was part of the recipe.

The salad seems so lonely sitting in front of Apollo's altar. Should she have tried to make juice? Something to clear the palette after all that sweet?

"Apollo, god of servitors," she starts, "please accept this humble offering."

She's prepared for this. Thought what she wanted to say, how she wanted to phrase it. Written it all down on a card, memorized it, practiced the words in front of a mirror.

But now that she's here, at the temple, the words stick in her throat.

"I hope you like it," she blurts out. "I do not know whether you enjoy sweets as much as I do. Because…"

She sighs. "I do not know what I am. What I should be. What I want to be."

Can she even make that decision? Even asking the question imagines that it's possible to be more than what she was made as. But… So is everyone else in this ship, right? The Coherents were not created to be guards. Dolce's creators never imagined a chef as a captain.

"As we travel among the Azure skies, we will be among nothing but servitors. An entire civilization, divorced from humanity. They… They must have different ideas. Different ways of thinking.

"Please... help me to find a new way to think of myself."

Breathless Dead

Alexa doesn't quite know where to stand.

Which is maddening, by the by. Decades of training, centuries of practice in standing still, and in one fell swoop, she's back to being awkward. The spear in her hand feels like a toy--no, worse, like a child using her mother's weapon in a game of pretend. Standing behind Redana now, in her condition, would be as insulting as it would be silly. But it's also what those decades of training insist is correct--that she should be in the background, behind and slightly to the left, in case of any attacks.

As if any of the other groups would accept an interloper claiming that position of unearned prestige. As if she could do anything if it happened. It's not nearly so restful or peaceful as it was in the party with the Coherents.

Still, once she sees Mynx on that dais in that form, she has to move forward. Quietly, meekly, so as not to disrupt the others or tread on toes. Without demanding. She's here, Mynx. You can see that face, see that concern there. But you obviously have a speech to respond to, right? She's here. She'll wait.

Breathless Dead

Alexa sits up in bed like the room is about to pitch over at any time--one arm on the bed, one on the bedrail, propping herself up, giving herself support. It can't be that simple, can it? Surely there should be... Something? Side effects? Operations are one of those things that should knock you out for a week, right? Not like you took a long nap?

She buries her face in one hand and groans. It was supposeed to take long enough that everybody could forget, especially her.

What was she thinking? She has a girlfriend already! If you wanna get real technical about it, she's got two! She doesn't want anybody to misunderstand, get the wrong idea about... About things! Things and stuff! Especially since she doesn't even know what the right idea is yet!

I mean, Ramses is. Well. Nice. Incredibly nice. Kind. Danced with her. Sought her out after she tried to bully her way into an appointment. Fed her. Held her. Arranged this whole thing for her. For someone Ramses only met once at a party. I mean, who does that kind of thing? Goes to that sort of effort for a stranger?

Is this flirting? Is that what Ramses wants in return? Is this courting? Is Ramses just a naturally good, kind, outgoing person? Does she want more?

And what does Alexa want them to want?

She groans, and hauls herself to the mirror. Feels around her face for sharp edges or indentations, for any telltale gaps, razor-sharp lines of fresh brass, and finds none. Is it weird to almost be disappointed at that? She... Well, it would be quite rude to say she expected worse. And in retrospect, none of the Coherents show terrible signs or scarring as a result of their modifications, so she doesn't quite know why she thought she'd come out with scarring.

Still, she finds herself grinning at the mirror version of herself. Mugging at the mirror, making faces, sticking out her tongue.

Huh.

Brass?

Is it funny that she hadn't thought what it would look like? Pink, neon blue? It's a good color obviously but... Was that an intentional material choice? Did the magos have a point to make in choosing that?

"Peter Piper picks pickles. Quick brown fox. Toy boat toy boat toy boat. Rrrrrroll. Things thought thoroughly."

Whew. Everything still works as it should. She wasn't that concerned, but... Whew.

She grins again, and makes a few more faces, just for good measure.

And now, the part she's been... Well, dreading isn't the right word. Anticipating, in the same way you anticipate test results, maybe? Everything so far has been so excellent, she's almost afraid that the most important part won't work.

Salty seems like a good place to start. She at least knows what salt is for--you put it on the rim of a martini--but has never understood why. She picks up the rod--thick, brittle, brown, with white speckles across its surface. Snaps it between two fingers, studies the crisp inner structure. Lays it on her tongue and--

Briefly, she's convinced that Ramses must have miscommunicated what she wanted to the priest and that she's ended up with the tongue of a gourmand.

What is this? The way it sits on her tongue, slowly dissolves? Draws out all the saliva, craves more? Almost before she knows it, the other half of the pretzel is in her mouth and gone and come on, you can't just give her one of those, that's blatantly a trap. With some reluctance, she sips the water.

Sugar is similar, but almost in the opposite direction? The fragile wafers sandwich a filling between them that tickle her tongue, beg for more. She could scrape the crackers clean for hours, if they weren't gone in seconds.

Dangit, she should have savored them more. Most of the salty drink recipes also call for sweet fruit, or something similar. Should have tried them together.

Sour is like lightning on her tongue, sucks her lips in. She laughs as she tastes it--not a favorite, she doesn't think.

Bitter just leaves her grabbing for the glass of water. Is that really a flavor? People choose to eat that?

That just leaves spicy, which... Well, at first, she's pretty sure she doesn't taste anything at all.

And then, well, after she can taste it, drinking water just makes it worse.

Breathless Dead

Quietly, Alexa sits against Ramses, swishes the liquid in her wineglass, and wonders at it all.

A day ago, she was having her teeth kicked in by some of these same people. Look, there they are--what'd Ramses call them? Murvle and Teck-Joe?--playing a game of bluffs over in the corner. She couldn't put names to more than maybe four others, and that only because she's been doing her best to catch names as they're spoken. None of them have fought at her side. Most or all of them know who she was. And worst of all, if they took it into their mind to hurt the people around her, she could do nothing. She can't protect herself! Can't protect those around her! Every nerve should be singing with fear, with anxiety, with tension!

And yet…

Somehow, the fact that she could not do anything is, itself, a calming thought. She's defenseless, no match for any of the Coherents. Has the blessing of no gods--not ones worth a damn, not ones she could count on to listen--and… She isn't the warrior she was. Doesn't have to stress about strategy, or concern herself with conspiracies.

Because what can she do, but lean back and let it happen?

She listens to the stories. Of bosses, who demand too much, pay too little. Of the excuses given. Of dirty jokes, told around campfires and passed around like precious gold. Of dreams, of change, of wanting to be more.

She doesn't know any of them. And yet, she's known them all her life. Has heard these stories dozens of times before, from dozens of others.

Alexa leans further back against Ramses, listens to the faint pulse of their heartbeat, and feels safe.

Do all the humans feel like this? Are they all straining against the limits of what they are, of what their hearts tell them they could be? Do the Coherents merely collect those who feel this way--the misfits, the weirdoes, the freaks? Or is it, just maybe, that she's not so different from them?

Maybe it's alright to want other things?

Carefully, she sips the wine. Feels it in her mouth, passes it from one side of her mouth to the other. Wonders what wine tastes like, and grins to herself because it's happening! She's gonna find out, in just a few minutes!

She drains the wineglass, and makes to stand up.

But before she goes, she turns to Ramses. Opens her mouth, can't quite meet their eyes. What even do you say? Words don't seem quite right--like there's so much to say, but anything she can say would be both too much and not enough.

She argues with herself briefly, and wins.

Words aren't enough. But she gives Ramses the biggest, hardest four-armed bear-hug she can manage. Puts all the words of gratitude, of acceptance, of happiness she can't say into that squeeze. Gives Ramses a quick, chaste peck on the cheek, and darts behind the curtain before her brain can catch up and start screaming.

Breathless Dead

Alexa has attended many rituals, and if there's one thing she's certain of, it's that the guest of honor is not supposed to hide in a corner, clutching a goblet between her and other people like a shield.

She's not supposed to be the center of attention! She's the background! She doesn't exist until she's needed! And everyone's come out here, for her! The've all taken time from projects and pursuits, all to put on a party in her honor! She wants to scream, to tell them not to bother! Go back to your lives! Stop wasting time on this! And yet, here they are, wrestling each other, performing dazzling displays of talent, a dizzying array of potential, all for her benefit!

She does her best to just focus on that. On shapes, on limbs. On what they are, how they are used, and not what they are doing.

They're only mock battles. Wrestling matches, blunted weapons, for the glory of the gods. And so long as she's not thinking of it as battles, she can avoid touching the spot in her mind that used to hold memories. Don't wonder about the usability of a limb in defense, or try to figure out a counter--just appreciate it for what it is.

(She hasn't dared to think about wrestling. It's not battle. It's not. She chose it, studied it, on her own. It's pure, unsullied. Nobody pushed her towards it. It lives in her head forever, so long as she never checks to make sure she still remembers how to do it.)

It's much better to think about what she's looking at. Safer. Think about the options available to her. Think about the Coherents, their boasting and actions and, and the.

Um.

The.

Oh gosh.

The sheer variety of shapes and forms on display--the oiled skin, the straining muscles, the screaming biosteel, slamming against and over each other? Big, strong? Sleek? Thick? Everybody has their own ideas of what beauty looks like, and somewhere a Coherent has made it a reality.

A dragon-headed form has Ramses in a headlock, but Ramses is fighting back with the tentacles--one arm is bound against the dragon's torso, and he's making a grand display of peeling the arms from his throat.

The crowd cheers as the dragon taps out, and she brings the goblet to her face in a rush. Miraculously, only half the drink sloshes over her, which, lemme just say? Nailed it, ace interaction skills.

She's pretty sure she was thinking something upsetting a few seconds ago, but this is much nicer.

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at Ramses, eyes wide and jaw slack.

In theory, she's pretty sure she knew there were this many kinds of tongue in the universe. But having them all listed at her? An encyclopedic litany of licks? She's not even sure where to start! Possible versions of herself strut across a mental catwalk--tasting the air! What an idea! Feeling out the environment, spotting enemies before they even know she's there! She gawps furiously as Tongues for Pleasure acts out something incredibly lewd on stage, and has to stop herself from blurting out, 'that one please.' A tongue for bathing! A tongue for war! Tongues for fighting and fucking flirting and flying and frightening and flyting and--

She listens as Ramses goes on, rapt at every word. No, that's not quite right--the words are amazing and she could spend hours just going over them in her head--but what really has her attention is the light in Ramses' eyes as they talk. That flare, that passion, that energy? She could sit and listen to Ramses gush for hours, a small smile growing on her face.

"I have never tasted anything before," she admits when Ramses pauses for breath and stares at her. "I can eat, yes. But it is all shapes and textures, never..." She waves a hand vaguely, having run out of words. "I can listen to people describe food, right? But it feels like describing green to a blind man. It would be nice to be able to, to see green for the first time."

Breathless Dead

Right… Now?

It's not that Alexa hasn't thought of what she wants to be. All those sleepless nights loathing what she is wouldn't be very good without dreams of what she could be.

She wants to be a strong defender, the invincible wall to keep her friends safe. She wants to never have to fight again, never have to worry about whether her friends are safe. She wants to chase Minerva, to read that letter, to hare off into the cosmos to find where she is. Is she well? Is she safe? Does she still laugh the way she used to? Does she still remember her? And at the same time, she almost feels guilty thinking that, because she also wants to see Isty smile more, learn about her, feel her in her arms. She wants to beg Athena for forgiveness at the same time as she wants to throw curses in her face, damn her for destroying her life.

She clings to Ramses' hand as the thoughts rush past. It's an anchor in a storm, something to bring her back to the present.

Those are all long-term destinations, though. Good girlfriend, pacifist, defender, those aren't now. They're things to work towards.

She rubs a thumb across his hand, feels the rough callouses. What do those say about right now? Why choose to keep those? What does it say that Ramses wants his hands to show the marks of work?

Right now. What does she want, in this second?

She stares at the plate. Reaches out with a spare hand. Turns it this way and that on the edge of the pool, studies the way the light plays across the discarded crab shells. Takes another bite, feels the texture on her teeth.

Tastes nothing.

"I think… I would like a better tongue."