Balmas

Breathless Dead

She's not!

Slithering straight, that is! To either! Slithering! Or straight!

She is, in fact, orbiting! Orbiting a point that is, in her experience, the perfect level of gravity to let her slowly cartwheel around it like a ringworld made of snake

A ringworld surrounding a bottle, which itself is tumbling in and through the center of the gravity field. Occasionally, she pokes it with the tail, sending it spinning in interesting--

"Oh, yeah, that'd explain it! Where's the still, friend?"

She watches the satyr rotate, spinning against the rotation of the bottle.

"Because I know it's gotta be somewhere in the ship, but I didn't see it before when I was doing my exploration, which means either it's new and exciting or, and this is the more exciting bit, since it's been distilling and distilling takes time that means that there's a part of the ship I haven't seen yet so spillllllll, bestie!"

And also if it's cold there, then that means the still itself is below freezing, which means it is exactly the best place in the ship to nap after they're out of a star, which is like triple reasons to find out!

Breathless Dead

Dyssia takes the bottle, and immediately feels foolish.

It's like, she just wanted to feel it, right? Run her fingers down the bottle, sniff at it, feel her sinuses clearing from the amount of alcohol wafting through the cork. It's heavy, and the liquid doesn't quite follow gravity like you'd think it oughta.

But now it's in her hands, and it's heavy because it's the kind of thing you can't--

It's not like you can just press it back in his hands and go "oh, sorry, I just wanted to look at the bottle, it's such a pretty color," right?

Well, that is, theoretically she could, but also it would mean losing face in front of Iskarot if she can't do it gracefully, and words are hard at the best of time and right now she just took a bribe when people's safety was on the line and--

Oh fuck, people are still on the line.

She stares at Iskarot a second longer, mouth agape, before rushing past him. She has to warn, has to let them know!--

She freezes, panting, halfway down the hall. In her white-knuckle fist, the liqueur in the bottle sloshes gently.

No, no, she has to be smart. She could run herself ragged running to each vent, checking for the yellow marks, persuading each of the people clustered around them to vacate the premises for somewhere hotter but safer.

But she has friends. She has people she can rely on.

She sprints down the corridors, recruiting poeople as she goes.

Because she's not in this alone.

Breathless Dead

"… Why do you have a stencil for this?"

No, seriously, that's. How many times are you going to have exactly this need?

No, actually, wait, hold on--

"How many areas have you marked like this?"

She's reaching for it--how many layers of yellow smoke? Can she tell that by how marked it i--and it's back in the robes. Somewhere.

Fuck.

He's doing his job. Or, you know, not his job, but the job he's decided is his job. That's good. We encourage that. We encourage people to think for themselves and cultivate skills and actually this is pretty similar to his. No, no, wait, no it's not, biomancy. His job is to evolve, which, apparently, means telling her what to do on her ship!--

No. No, don't be dumb. Push it down. Yes, it's instant, yes, it's instinctual--Cultural? Is there a difference at this point?--and it's dumb and it's stupid and you're better than that, Dyssia.

Besides. He's not. Not wrong, necessarily. Just unnecessarily an asshole. Cooling things here means cooling everywhere, just. Not for her and--

"Excuse the fuck out of me, but this is a ventilation shaft. For, you know, air. It's a main ventilation shaft. And at every terminus, there's a pile of people who're gonna get pretty well done when you run plasma through it.

"So here's what we'll do. I'll surrender this ground to your plasma cooling for the good of the ship. And for the good of the crew, you can show me your plan to make sure nobody gets hurt by this."

Breathless Dead

As much as she loves the Pix, they are a bit much.

That is to say, she loves them so much--loves their smell, their feel, their competition, the way she can be on top one moment and under someone else's heel the next--but also they run incredibly hot. Being in a cuddlepile of Pix is to have several miniature furnaces purring into you from every direction. Restrictive in the best way, normally her favorite way to sleep but...

She's not so much hiding from them as, you know, temporarily avoiding them.

(They'll recover, surely, and she'll make apologies later for not being in the room which is currently more shed fur than bunkhouse. Ropes may be involved, depending on how adeptly she apologizes.)

The ones clustered around the vents are smart, you know? But the smarter ones--like, say the ones that had a couple years of redshifted time to poke around and unscrew and put things back together--know that there's a magic spot near the ramming prow of the ship, yeah? The armor of the ship's thicker there, with more insulation. It's about as far as you can get from the Engine, which itself puts out a not-inconsiderable-amount of heat. And, most importantly, the vents widen out enough to be comfortable, instead of just tolerable. Less airflow, but it's all hers.

She, admittedly, didn't expect anyone else to know about it. And yet, here Iskarot is, tucking the glowing-edged section of cut-out ventilation shaft back into place behind him.

Breathless Dead

Is she the right person for this job?

No, no, wait, flip that around.

Because if you're looking for someone who can do the job of high priest--no, no, again, rephrase, chief philosopher, maybe?--If you're looking for someone who can do the job of figuring out in a few days in the middle of a not-yet-active warzone the basic tenets of a new civilization, then she's your girl.

It's just that while she may be the right person for the job, does she have a right to the job?

Anything she makes is going to be at least based in the same Azura sensibilities and priorities. They're a new civilization, they could be anything! She's come so far from who she was before any of this happened, but think how long it took her to, to, to even see how the Azura manage things.

Unfortunately, the alternative is to stand back and do nothing, which means that any lingering bits of programming Bronze left get to influence this new group of people as they learn and grow. So--

Be Kind.
An odd commandment for a species of warrior servitors, certainly. But recognize that you are more than just what you are, and that there will be times when you are not fighting. Take every opportunity to recognize that the people around you--the people you fight, the people fleeing, everyone around you--is a person in their own rights, with as many emotions and thoughts as you have. Remember that nice and kind are not always the same thing. Care for others, tend them, shepherd them, but--

[b]First, care for yourself.[/i]
Put your own mask on first. Can't serve from an empty vessel. Pick whatever idiom you care for, but recognize that if you're not taking care of yourself, eventually you won't be able to care for others. Make sure your own needs are taken care of first. Yes, yes, in theory you could go your entire months-long life without eating, sleeping, or drinking, but there's no reason to do that if you don't have to. Things are worth doing in their own right and properly, and that includes good food, long naps, and friendships.

Give people the opportunity to be good.
You don't know what people are like, or how they'll treat you. Extend them kindness first, and watch how they respond. Watch for those who would exploit you, treat you as things, treat the kindness as weakness to be mocked or used. Kindness is mutual, trust is mutual, and you should give people the opportunity to show you they're not worthy of either.

Pass it on.
You, of all servitors, are the most vulnerable to having your culture disrupted. Enshrine things in ritual, in language, in how you live, so that the next person clever enough to steal you can't steal you from yourselves.

Breathless Dead

Bingo.

It's a special feeling, you know? To have someone in your arms, to feel safe enough in them to let go.

Of course, she's only too happy to feed her friend--to present morsels at his mouth, to hold them out and let him eat out of her hand.

Food's a dangerous tool, you know?

It's like food has a magic all its own, right? You can tease, play, let it dance in front of their mouth before they finally get to nibble that dainty bite. And of course, if those muscles tense, if those shoulders tighten up…

Well, she's waiting with another little cream-filled bite at your lips.

"I keep thinking," she says, and feeds another cream-cheese-and-cucumber-laden cracker into Dolce's lips. "Omn mentioned a group of Ceronians that sold themselves into slavery."

And doesn't that image just float, unbidden, to the front of her mind. Muscles, barely covered in gold and silks, the clinking of small golden links, and wouldn't she look nice like thaaamoving on

Revisit that thought later, It's a nice one.

"It's just like--. Um. Thoughts, words, shit."

She taps the butt of her hand against her temple, as if the motion will make the jumbled thoughts slot into place.

"They have the urge to expand, right? It's their nature, their programming, it's who they are. But they're not brutes. They can be subtle, slow, work towards a goal, even if it means moving away from that immediate goal right at this very moment. We can present them with that opportunity, if we can find something they'd pursue now for greater power later."

Pause. Select a cracker, load it with hummus, hover it just in reach.

"And I keep thinking of a comet, trailing stars, riding a seabeast against a capital ship."

The sentence hangs in the air.

"You've something special, you know that? I'm a master of the rail in my own right, and I've never seen it used like that.

"I guarantee the Ceronians haven't either."

Again, silence, broken by cracker crunching.

"And of course, if they wanted to learn that style--to have that power for themselves, to use down the line--they'd need to play for her favor. They'd need to make her happy, and whoever wins the contest gets her favor and her teaching."

She takes a bracing bite of cracker, and continues.

"What I am in fact proposing is that we encourage packs of wolves--ideally, split up if we can--to direct their passion and fury into a game of competitive husband pampering."

Breathless Dead

Dyssia listens.

And for once, that's all she does. One hundred percent all-in on listening. Doesn't spend time planning what to say. Doesn't line up sentences and examine them for phrasing and lyrical assonance in the spaces between parsing words. Doesn't, in the mental pause while waiting for the other person to stop talking, consider the number of tiles in the wall mosaic and, hmm, that one is chipped, isn't it?

None of that.

He's trembling, she realizes. And the the teacup is cold against her scales.

"You know," she sighs, and swirls the dregs of her tea, "I feel the same way, sometimes? Like, almost more so now that I know better than I did starting out?"

"I'm an Azura! An administrator species, for what good that hogwash title ever did me. A Publica Knight, a veteran of multiple battles and campaigns! I've become the kind of person I used to sigh about when I heard stories about them in the bars near the shipyards!"

She sighs, sagging back in midair as if into a heavy, padded chair.

"And somehow I still feel like the frightened kid that dove into trouble to avoid being caught by bigger trouble. I'm still… Still winging it. I thought I'd have things figured out by the time I became a hero."

It's like…

"Everything's so big, right? Like, biomancy, right? How do I solve that? How do I take these hundreds of species with different wants, desires, inborn needs that are at odds with each other, and make everyone happy?

Quiet. Quiet, as if the words are hard to admit.

"I'm… I'm just one person. What good can one person do, against all of that?

"And I think the answer is, more than zero, if that makes sense? Like, maybe I don't have all the answers and solutions, but… I've made a difference, and a good one, in a limited sense. More than I would have if I'd just… let things happen. Just sat back and had an easy life."

She frowns, and swirls the dregs of her sugar slurry, before eyeing the top of the bundle of wool.

"And you could have too, Dolce. But you've chosen to… To help, whenever you can. To be someone who helps, in hundreds of ways, to make life better for the people around you.

"And maybe, you know, maybe I'm just one person. And maybe you're just one person. But that makes two of us, and we're not alone anymore, and you know, I'm pretty sure a bunch of people working together can do what one person can't."

Are these the right words? She's not sure. But... But how can she not say them? How can she not look at this sheep and tell him how much he's already helped?

Breathless Dead

Do other Azura rankle when they're being managed?

… Do they even notice?

No, really, honest question. There are… well, there're a frankly staggering number of things she's. Not discovered. Discovered is the wrong word. Realized? Had the curtain pulled back on?

Figured out. Things she's figured out through exposure to people with different needs built in at the molecular level.

Do they notice when that disarming smile comes through and peels back the layers of defenses?

You're never supposed to. The entire game is designed to let the administrators get on with their no-doubt important work without thinking of all the many, many steps that have to function at every level.

… two sugars, please.

… three.

Just leave the bowl, please.

It's built into her just as surely as in any servitor. The only difference is that now she's aware of it happening.

…and yet.

And yet, it's--

It's different, right? It's not managing. Not giving a series of easy, quick bursts of success, not out of a need to serve or a, a, an instinct, or--

She swirls the tea in her cup, and stares over its lip at the bundle of fluff in her tail.

She's expected to say something, she's sure of it. But the words, not for the first time in the past few weeks, refuse to come.

Alas, timelessness, alas.

Clink, goes another spoonful of sugar.

It's not their fault, indeed.

She stares again at--yes, at a friend. Not a Synnefo and his charge, but someone who, in a time of deep distress--and she's sure of that, even in the complete absence of any ability to point at what indicates it--a friend who took time to reassure her.

There's probably a fight breaking out somewhere in the ship. A debate over how a baton was passed, or something to do with the Ceronian's pet magos.

She takes another sip, and holds him as tightly as she dares. Security, warmth, and, yes, friendly comfort.

"It's… nice, not to have to wage this alone," she admits. Lets the sentence dangle, as if to invite the comment. How long have you been alone? How must it feel to have… Well, a listening ear?

You can tell. She keeps secrets for her friends.

Breathless Dead

Dyssia frets over her notebook as if doing so will make the words line up better.

"What even do I say to them?" she half-whines, half-wails, and tosses the notebook into a drawer. It's not staring accusingly at her, she knows, but still she turns away from the drawer's gaze.

"Oh hey, by the way, I know you told me not to steal them, and whoops I did anyway, and now it's causing trouble, but actually it's your wife's warrior servitors who are causing the problem, can we weaponize them until we find a good spot to dump them?"

She's less pacing than she is orbiting--hovering around a fixed point, tail trailing behind her like a particularly stressful comet.

"Dolce, you were with them on Beri, right? You seem like you know them so much better than I do. What even can I do to help here?"

Breathless Dead

This is torture.

Everything is bright, right? Eardrum-piercingly noisy. Too fast, too loud, too stimulating. Too many things happening at once, all demanding her attention at the same time.

She'd thought the olympics idea would be… you know, a release valve. A way to vent competition in a way that doesn't involve more than metaphysical spear-rattling among the various groups. Keep it meta, that's the ticket, prevent the outbreak of violence in the other half-sense of the word.

Too much happening at once. Competitions demanding rules adjudication. Feathers to unruffle.

Preen? Is that the right word for this metaphor?

The attempt to return to that timeless state was not successful. Maybe a controlled test of the Crystal sword? Cloning?

It's a stall, is what it is. A stalling tactic to avoid allowing the thought to seep into her head as anything more than a background of dread.

But…

"We can't keep them," she admits quietly over her shoulder to the sheep nestled securely in her tail, as if the thought itself is deeply shameful.

Below, a fight breaks out between the Pix and a cluster of Summerkind. Something about the relay being run, probably.

You only get one shot at a conversation, is the worst bit. The words have to be right the first time. Torture, over and over.

"But what can we do with them that won't get them dumped right back in the waiting arms of Liquid Bronze, or at the mercy of whatever 'administrator species' happens to find them first?"