Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

On the ride up, Quinn was engulfed in a benthic silence, heavy and humming and all-encompassing. Beyond the gentle whirring of the lift’s motors was an inaudible but not entirely intangible hum, like one might hear pressing their ear to the hull of a submarine. Despite the fact that she was ascending, there would be an inescapable feeling of sinking into the deep, until, with a ding! she came to a gentle stop, and the doors slid open.

Warmth greeted her, like the air was made of silk. Before her was a wide hallway built along the hanging slope of the Ange’s edge. Its walls were an even beige, and looked almost soft, as if the panels were made from some dense foam. A single, narrow rail of light ran the length of the ceiling, vanishing behind the distant curve of the hallway. It was dim, but the visibility was perfect, perhaps in part to the natural lighting.

Beside her was a window as long and tall as a school bus, reaching halfway to the ceiling. Though logic told her the glass had to have been unbelievably thick, the clarity it gave made it seem paper-thin, as though she could step right through it into the void. Faint starlight filtered in, not in a thick beam, but in an even diffusion that maintained the sleepy ambiance. There was a small coffee table set up before it, and further down, a blanket lay in a bunched-up heap at the base, as though someone had slept leaning against the curved window.

A sign on the other, inner-wall, pointed onward with the words: ‘PILOT SUITES’ printed upon it. There really was nowhere left to go but forwards, and a suddenly awakened inner curiosity spurred her on.

The tender quiet filled the hall like floodwater as she went. She passed doors in the paneling, leading further inward. ‘RECREATION’ they said, or ‘LOWER COMMON ROOM’, and ‘LOWER KITCHEN’, ‘GYM’ and ‘LAUNDRY’. One she passed was marked: ‘TALENT SUITE: Sybil’, but with no viewports in the doors, there was no way to see inside, and an access panel beside it showed that it was locked.

Not too far was another locked door, this one on her left, curved and built into the outer wall. It read simply: ‘Camille de Lile’. This, she could guess, was a dorm room.

Another sign informed her that she was entering the Suite’s ‘middle’ section, where a door labeled: ‘AUTO WALKWAY’ seemed to sit in the dead center of the wing. But before she could go much further, she came to one more. ‘Quinnlash Loughvein’. Just like Camille’s it was built into the outer wall. Another access panel awaited, and while there was a keypad and a scanner, upon looking directly into the tiny glass dome at the top, the red light swapped to green, and a mechanical click sounded. The door slid open on its own.

The room was…big. Ridiculously so. In size alone it had to be at least half the size of the Aerie’s entire dorm house. The curving ceiling had three rails of lights, all as dim as the hallway, with the same beige paneling. Soft carpet ran underfoot, covering the whole floor save for a hardwood section beneath what must have been a small dining area, complete with a table that could have easily seated six, a kitchenette equipped with a squat fridge, a toaster and a microwave, as well as a hotplate, and likely more tucked into the cabinets.

Beside it was an open door leading into a tiled bathroom that was nearly the size of the Aerie’s common room, where within she found a milk-glass shower with a normal head, as well as more seemingly built into the ceiling. There was a bath as well, or perhaps it was a hot tub. On the counter were an array of beauty products, makeup kits, shampoos and conditioners, a variety of toiletries, all lined along a wide mirror. What must have been a year’s worth of toilet paper sat stacked inside a glass cabinet beside the toilet itself.

Across from the bathroom was her bed, king-sized and draped with a comforter quilt that looked stuffed with featherdown, and sheets as silken as the air. A desk sat beside it, like a workstation you could find at an office, topped with a computer, an assortment of books on Casobani culture and history, and a printer.

A massive screen sat built into one wall, while a great square seam in another had a button beside it. Pressing it, the seams shuttered and slid away, revealing a window much like the ones in the hall. Dark starlight seeped in, and as she stood in the vast open space in the middle of the room, she could still feel that silence with her.

For the next three weeks, and for at least some time after that, this was going to be her home.

Amygdala Circuit

Toussaint waited while Quinnlash appeared to recalibrate herself. It wasn’t unusual for newcomers to be awestruck by the Ange’s beauty; most would not have expected artistry in a place like the hangar, which was what set the CSC apart from other programs. There were no ‘low points’, no ‘crude machinery’, no concession of craft for practicality because there was no distinction between them. Casoban did things as beautifully as it did expertly, equal and excellent.

But he had the feeling that she wasn’t stunned in the way most people were. This was more like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming semitruck. It was like the mere idea of luxury was foreign to her. Darroh hadn’t lied, the girl really didn’t get out much.

Nonetheless, he accepted her thanks and was pleased by her graceful recovery. She seemed eager to get all the formalities out of the way, which he sympathized with, having long grown tired of them himself. Unfortunately their customs were fairly settled.

“Not today, no. Medical will check you in tomorrow, and introductions are left to your discretion. For now you’re free to settle in, explore as you like, or don’t. Your room is pre-furnished, however you’ll find a catalogue on the wall-screen—feel free to peruse, and should you find anything you like, we can have it moved in. That will come from your stipend, which you will receive every cycle.

“For the most part, though, your amenities are free. Food is covered anywhere on the Ange, as is entertainment and the like. Should you require accommodations for any passions or hobbies, they may be covered as well. You'll find the CSC is quite flexible when it comes to fostering talent. If you find yourself drawn to something, don't hesitate."

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Ionna had been in Juniperus less than a day, and was already on the precipice of an incident. Sitting on the steps to an entrance specifically reserved for the Scions and Templars, she waited while the guards made sure that the small box of cookies she’d baked were not, in fact, bombs designed to eradicate the powers that be. Her Templarhood and winning smile were apparently not evidence enough. So, she sat there on the stone in her shiny uniform, creasing it in ways that would likely have made its designers foam at the mouth, and prayed to the goddess that her absence wasn’t embarrassing Dominika.

From her pocket, she produced a series of small notecards, which gained her a flinch from the guard who had stayed behind to mind the door. Gosh, people here could be so jumpy. On one side was either the word ‘Scion’ or ‘Templar’, and on the other, their respective names. She’d drawn them up the night before in preparation; she’d been aware of some of them peripherally, and others like the Templar of Time were in the news often enough, but for others she was learning their names for the first time. Being the newest, she felt a responsibility—or perhaps more accurately a crushing anxiety—not to appear entirely ignorant. It had been pressed upon her that being good with a sword was not actually a full qualification, and that she would need to present herself more appropriately for someone of her station.

Assumedly that meant not getting the names of the holy Scions wrong.

“Lucas Estora—easy. Tyler Morris.” she set those cards aside, doubtful that anyone in the country didn’t hear their names a few times by lunch each day. “Templar of Wind…uhm…okay, Wind is Hollyhock. Hollyhocks grow best in temperate, sunny places—like Veradis! Jannick Web…Web-something. Webster.”

She flipped the card. Weber. Close enough. So was Edman Silvaine, Templar to the popular miss Desrosiers, which Ionna didn’t even attempt to pronounce. Edmund was such a Rodion name, she felt silly getting it wrong.

To her relief, she got most of the rest in one. The elegant elder Lucienne and her well-loved Templar, Sir Jacinthe. The earthen Scion Justinian, a known trouble-maker and media darling, as well as his Templar—or handler, depending on who you asked—Dame Esperanza. Kindly Sir Vissarion and the diva Isabella. Of course, she knew the Templar of Light by heart, having been a fan of the Dame Gusev before she even took up her position as the princess’s guard. Then there was the fierce commander Gaumond, who father had made her keenly aware of when he became the Scion of fire, and for good reason. His Kaudian Templar had been the focus of many tabloid rumors, but Ionna had always regarded him as the truer threat between them, even against her own wishes. Then there was His Holiness Mirandola, the romantic, in hoc to shadow with his own Templar.

That left only one card for Dominika, and Ionna panicked before she remembered that she was the Templar. Good! So long as she could keep all of that straight, everything ought to go smoothly.

Eventually the guards did return, and begrudgingly returned her cookies. She left them a few, as recompense for the trouble, and hurried inside, excited as could be.

--

As the—Templaring?—ceremony concluded, and Sir Morris was properly returned to his position, the High Cardinal wasted no time in excusing herself. Ionna didn’t miss how her eyes lingered on the prince, nor the…interesting conversation between him and his new Templar. Not that she could hear any of it, mind, but was it normal for a Scion to…pinch their guard’s cheek like that? Perhaps Her Holiness—Her Highness?—the princess, but these two? Strange. Cute, but strange.

Regardless, with the High Cardinal gone and the lot of them being left presumably to their own devices for the time being, Ionna sprung into action. She retrieved her box of cookies from behind a pillar, and poked her head around to make sure Dame Albakova wasn’t here yet. She only saw Sir Fyodor, which still made her a bit nervous, but nowhere near as much as Irina did. Nonetheless, she’d still made sure to account for the woman when she was baking, just in case.

Ionna made her way forward to a clearing in the room. “Pardon!” she said, not loudly, but more cleanly than she’d anticipated. Then again, meeting people had never been particularly difficult for her. “Ah, my name is Ionna, I’m sort of new to the order. I just wanted to say it’s wonderful to meet you all! And, if you’re so inclined, I’ve brought some treats for everyone. Chocolate chip on the right, plain sugar on the left. Please feel free! All they cost is an interesting fact about yourself, so I can get to know you!”

Amygdala Circuit

The ceremonies didn’t last much longer; there was, undercurrent to everything, an urgent air, not pronounced enough to notice, but present enough to feel. After the recent, sudden attacks, it seemed like having the pilots separated from their Saviors, even so briefly, caused a degree of anxiety amongst the commanding officials. In the same way Dahlia was now all but glued to the Aerie and Dragon, it seemed like Quinn would seldom be away from Ablaze unless there were other pilots available.

So, when the lift landed once again, Quinn and the denizens of the Ange bid goodbye to the crowd with a fairly tame farewell. Toussaint positioned himself beside Quinn, who he sequestered towards the edge of the lift, so that he stood between her and the rest of the crew. Commander Darroh had made it quite clear to him that the girl was easily flustered, but even without the warning, he’d seen that well enough for himself at the duel.

Thankfully, aside from some wayward glances, everyone kept their distance. He’d instructed as much, but, with pilots you never could know what they would and wouldn’t listen to. Especially with the new blood. Camille had always followed orders well, but Sybil and Cyril were young celebrities—which, after Hovvi, was not a sort he would blindly trust any longer. Even now they stood shoulder to shoulder, glancing back at Quinn with poorly-hidden intrigue, muttering to one another like school children in the back of a classroom. He did not envy Darroh the daycare RISC had become.

They drew closer to the Ange, now visible through the hardlight barrier above them. Unlike the utilitarian Aerie, built around the stripped corpse of Westwel’s old station, the Ange was an original work, and like most things from Casoban, it was a work of art. It was easily twice the size of the Aerie, wide, disc-shaped, like a tiered dessert saucer awash with lights and viewports as tall as houses. Curving buttresses swept out from the base, around the entrance to the elevator, and encircling the whole station was a ring housing what appeared to be a monorail system. If the Aerie was a town, then the Ange was a small city.

With a smoothness like butter, the elevator eased into the hangar. Even for a place that was ostensibly entirely practical, it was still beautiful. The ceiling was vaulted like a cathedral, and the alcoves for the Saviors—all close to the platform—were shaped like stone pillars, though they were undoubtedly metal. Tiny trucks and forklifts scooted about on roads painted onto the floor, elegant and organized. A small cluster of workers stood about nearby, pretending to be busy. Toussaint had made similar orders that they not be crowded upon their return, and this was…close enough. Stargazing he could permit, especially considering many of the crew had families not too far from where Quinn had been fighting.

The platform sealed beneath them, and the barrier flickered away. To his relief, the crew—twins included—wandered off immediately to leave him and their newcomer alone. Only Camille lingered a moment, casting an impassive if appraising look at the young pilot, before marching away.

“Well,” Toussaint said with a long breath. “I suppose this has been a rather exciting day for you, and it’s hardly lunch. Speaking of…” he retrieved a small satchel from atop a nearby cargo box, which he offered to her. “Your onboarding package. Inside you’ll find a map of the station, complete with the operating and visitation hours—the Ange’s lower shopping floor is open to occasional tourism from the public, but mostly private, sector. You’ll be expected to make yourself visible—though not necessarily available—during these every now and then. If you’d like to allow interviews and autographs, I’d recommend scheduling a time and location, unless mobs are your thing.

“The floor directly above us belongs entirely to the pilots. Your dorms are in the western radius, recreational and private facilities are in the east. No other personnel aside from medical, security, and myself have access unless granted by you. The lift connects there,” he pointed to a hallway just beside the alcove Ablaze was stationed at. “And there is a second lift in the eastern radius that leads to the station’s upper floors. It’s quite a walk from one end to the other, so I’d suggest acquainting yourself with the monorail. There’s a smaller auto-walkway in the dormitory floor as well.

“There is a curfew. Pilots must be on their floor by midnight, but everything therein will remain open, and a small catering staff will be on call in the event you find your amenities to be insufficient. You are welcome to any of the Ange’s restaurants, but private chefs are available, and eager.

“I suppose this goes without saying but, you and all the pilots are always on call. That goes for singularities, yes, but also for public events. At your commander’s request I’ve seen to it you have no mandatory appearances for your first two weeks, but I can make you no guarantees after that. If I might offer my advice, I would try to attend something before that point, whether you interact with the public directly or not.

“Other than that, you are, essentially, free as you please. I’ll do my best to make myself available to you should any concerns arise, but I do beg your understanding for any delays, as things have been…hectic, as of late.” He gestured to Ablaze then, entombed in scaffolding, upon which men and women in lab coats scurried about like ants. “As you can see, your Savior was transported safely. My people are running tests as a formality, and they will, of course, see to any emergency issues, but your own technicians should arrive tomorrow to do their part.

“Do you have any questions? Is there anything I can clear up for you, or do to make your settling here easier?”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

Ionna, Templar of Miquella

________________________________________ Ionna Rani Female | 24 | Rodion Templar of Wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy? _______________________________________________ One day, when the Scions' reach exceeds their reason but not their grasp, they will pose a dire question to the Federation. Malen'kiy mech, she is my answer. ________________________________________

"No one told me having a sacred duty would be this much fun!" Minor Holy Sigil Location Appears on her right shoulder, just above her prosthesis's anchor. Appearance Hair like fire, eyes a burning gold; Ionna strikes a distinctive figure—or would, were it not for her demeanor. Of all the words that may come to mind when one sees her, ‘imposing’ would not be among them. She’s taller than average, with lean muscle built under a scrutinized training routine, but most eyes go directly to her prosthesis. Her right arm is entirely magitech, housed most often in a Templar-gold casing that, while pretty, functions with the perfect control of a natural limb. When they’re done staring, people often then look to her face, perhaps expecting an answer. Instead, what they usually find is a smile, and eyes that welcome conversation from friend and stranger alike. Though very fond of her Templar uniform, she does have a preference for more comfortable clothes. Long sleeves, jackets, and hoodies are a staple to cover her arm, the casing of which she swaps for something darker and less ornate. Personality Most people would be surprised to find out Ionna is Rodion. Warm, friendly to a fault, easily excitable and perhaps a bit gullible, she entirely lacks the stereotypical frigidness of her homeland. Often the last to draw swords and the first to strike up conversations, even and sometimes especially with those who may not appear receptive to it. The life of a Templar both excites and fascinates her, but she’s also had to temper her expectations somewhat—in a good way. Her father has always impressed upon her the necessity for the Church’s influence over the Scions, and how important it is they be kept in line for everyone’s safety. However, rather than come into the job expecting to struggle with whoever she’s assigned to, she would rather believe them to be reasonable people. After all, Scion or not, humans can learn from their mistakes, and avoid them, too. To her, no matter the conflict there’s almost always a peaceful solution to be found. And if there isn’t…well, like her father, Ionna has no love for violence. But neither does she fear it. Biography It began, as many things do, with a demonstration of power. On a cloudy dawn in 981, when the lakeside village of Vuzkymist was inextricably occupied by its Kaudian neighbors, a Scion arrived to liberate it. By noon nothing remained, not of the Kaudians, nor the village. They called it “The Wrath of Vuzkymist”, as if to imply the people, so incensed by their occupation, would have dutifully chosen to see their village destroyed, rather than surrendered to the enemy. In the ruins of his birthplace, a Rodion scientist by the name of Sascha Rani lost his faith in the Scions. And the little syrota he had come to collect lost her home. She had been orphaned long before The Wrath of Vuzkymist, and was brought to Sascha’s attention when he heard tell of a young ward of his hometown church overloading their older, mana-based technology. He had come down to see her for himself when the Kaudians invaded, and despite everything, he was not disappointed. His status and stability made the adoption easy; in a month’s time she had his name. Ionna Rani. For a child, she recovered quickly. The attack did not leave her frightened and withdrawn, but rather, Ionna was boundlessly curious about the world, and especially other people. Living in a sizeable town not terribly far from Alvar, she enjoyed relative safety and comfort, though the Rani house was far from some lavish estate. Sascha spent much of his time away at work, or holed up in his workshop, neck-deep in personal projects. Often, Ionna was left in the care of her uncle, a former knight named Dragomir, well-reputed for his service repelling Kaudians at the border. Age and injury saw him walking with a cane, but he found many excuses to draw his sword even in retirement. Dragomir was tall, broad, and vicious as a gnarled bear, and Sascha was…much softer. He was kindhearted, passive, and seemed quite averse to conflict—not qualities many would say suited a Rodion, especially not other Rodions. So, Dragomir often stood as champion to the family name, defending it and his brother from conflict and slander. Ionna took much more after her father, which aggravated Dragomir to no end. When she was ten, he resolved to teach her swordplay, assuming she would be hardened in the crucible of combat. He prepared himself for the arduous task of instructing someone so seemingly disinterested, but as it turned out, that was the lesser challenge. Ionna took to the sword quite naturally, it was her levity that resisted. Every session, no matter how long or how battering, she smiled, and thanked him, and looked forward to the next. Over the years this never changed. His last hope came when he finally convinced her to step into the ring, fight a few duels herself. It was for naught; Ionna spent an hour before the fight chatting with the young man who had purportedly impugned her father’s honor, and when it came time to draw blades, they seemed like lifelong friends. Dragomir watched in horror as Ionna bested her opponent, and what ought to have been considered a humiliating defeat at the hands of a teenager with no record, was instead played off with good-humored laughs, and kind wishes of farewell. She was utterly incorrigible. Worse, he was too proud to abandon her. What time she didn’t spend training or socializing, she aided her father in his workshop. She wasn’t permitted anywhere near his official duties, but for his personal projects he often asked for her help directly—and she always, enthusiastically agreed. She had little technical expertise, and while well-educated, she was by no means qualified for advanced robotics. She did, however, provide an excellent source of energy. Ionna was a mage by the most technical of terms. She had zero aptitude for spellcasting of any sort, even the lowliest of parlor tricks were beyond her capabilities. What she did have was an astoundingly large pool of mana. With practice, she no longer shorted every bit of arcane circuitry she engaged with, and could easily provide power to her father’s prototypes. He was fascinated with magitechnology, with the influence of human will on machines. As time went on, fewer of his inventions needed a raw outpouring of power, and instead required her to carefully manipulate her mana output. As with swordplay, this too became natural to her with time, and practice. She liked being useful to him, they spent more time together this way. Near the end of her twentieth year, Doumerc successfully created the first artificial limb, and many of the Dominion’s governmental robotics sectors swerved to find ways to improve and weaponize the concept, Sascha’s included. He was away from home much more often, and for an entire year, Ionna saw worryingly little of her father. Dragomir, for his part, did his best to distract her with duels and training—though he was growing too old to keep up with her. It was the first time he had seen her truly distraught. Sascha didn’t call, or write, and what little time he did spend at home he hardly acknowledged her. She became convinced that, somehow, she had upset him, and it was beyond Dragomir's power to change her mind. Even with an old soldier’s heart, he found the treatment cruel. Eventually however, when Sascha did return in earnest, all it took was a smile for Ionna to light up again. She came to him like a loyal hound, all neglect forgotten. Sascha burned with new inspiration, and the two of them quickly fell back into habit. Dragomir did not see Ionna again for months. When he did, her right arm was gone. In its place was a crude prosthesis awash with veins of arcane circuitry. It moved a bit stiffly, but responded down to the slightest motors. Not biotechnology, Sascha asserted, but magitechnology, anchored not to the brain, but the will. Dragomir was aghast; Sascha had created an artificial limb, but he’d mutilated his own daughter to do it. He nearly reported it, partly for the ethical failings, and partly out of his own patriotism. Regardless of how it had been done, it had been done, and the Dominion ought to know about it so they could get ahead. But alas, twenty years away from war had softened him to his niece’s pleas, and ultimately he agreed to say nothing. For now. Two more years passed, and Sascha’s magitech prosthetic evolved. A fine-tuning of mechanics combined with Ionna’s control over her own mana saw it functioning as naturally as her old arm, better even. With long sleeves and a glove, the difference was all but imperceptible. The last time Dragomir saw her, she dueled with a blade Sascha had embedded into it. The way she moved, she might as well have been born that way. His congratulations were empty, and though he expressed his displeasure to Sascha in private, his brother brushed him off. So be it. Dragomir decided it was time the Dominion knew. Too late. They were both gone the next day, and though the house was untouched, the workshop was empty. All of the prototypes, all of the research, vanished. A week later, they reappeared on the news when Sascha was accepted into the Church’s order, where his secrets would no doubt be put to good use. And Ionna, standing excitedly beside him, was now a Templar. Weapon of Choice Technically speaking, Ionna always has a weapon on-hand. Her prosthetic arm is equipped with a retracting blade which, when deployed, can extend to a proper sword's length, or be shortened. Its single edge carries a slight curve and, while kept sharp, the arm's connection with her own mana allows her to ignite it with arcane energy, making it useful for defense against attacks both physical and magical. Misc. Theme tbd In her first days as a Templar, between her casual clothing and friendly, almost servicing demeanor, she was mistaken several times for a maid. Her penchant for tidying her surroundings, as well as cooking and handing out snacks has some still unsure. Has yet to win a single bout of Rock Paper Scissors with her prosthetic.

ac/dc

________________________________________ Renault Allard Male | 26 | Doumerc Scion of Lightning _______________________________________________ "He doesn't smile right. I don't know. Like when a dog shows you its teeth, it's not happy—it's gonna bite." ________________________________________

"It's so very good to be back." Holy Sigil Location On the palm of his right hand. Appearance Renault strikes a distinctive figure. He stands just over six feet, and has been described as ‘gangly’ by the less than generous, though they aren’t far off. An avalanche of red hair falls well down his back, and bright, almost lupine eyes sit behind a pair of sleek glasses. Most people, however, notice the smile first. He wears it often, even when it might be inappropriate, and to hear it said it makes him frustratingly difficult to read. Perhaps that's the point. Though a sharp dresser, he doesn’t bother adapting to new trends. Renault has a small but trusty wardrobe of dress shirts, button-ups, vests and coats that he’s worn since he first stepped foot onto the aristocratic scene. He favors dark colors, and smart cuts that don't cross the line into flashy, but still command elegance on the right shoulders. Personality When it comes to appearing like your stereotypical aristocrat, Renault does his level best to fit the bill. Polite, well-spoken, and measured, he enjoys conversation and is always eager to meet new people. An avid reader with a taste for arcane academia, he isn’t a scholar but he has a passion for magic that’s stuck with him since childhood, and is always out to learn more than he knows, regardless of the subject. Most see past the smile quickly, but coming from politics he’s used to distrust. Having supported Nadine Lucienne’s stances for most of his career, he makes no secret of his relative distaste for the Church’s conduct. He believes Incepta chose her Scions for a reason, seeing in them the potential to be more than pretty figureheads. Biography Renault never saw House Allard at its weakest, before Nadine Lucienne became Scion and rose it from the aristocratic squalor it wallowed in, but he has seen it at its most pathetic. When things were low, House Allard sprawled to survive; it sired bastards, it married down, it branched shallow, but wide. Falling out of relevance had the unique effect of liberating them from the expectations of a higher House, while simultaneously shaming them for it. In the distant reaches of the family, this shame turned inward, gnawing at each new generation that failed to rise above their station. As a member of one of the House’s most far-flung branches, Renault’s prospects were meager. He and his sister Coralie grew up in a modest home in the Racine suburbs, unable to afford a place in the city’s heart. Coralie was a sickly girl who spent many of her early years bedridden, though she blossomed to be wildly sociable when she became a little healthier. Renault, however, was a bit of a recluse. He was magically gifted, but hopeless when it came to strangers. Often Coralie was his only company, and he spent many days in her room, reading and talking, and entertaining her with paltry spells when she couldn’t muster herself out of bed. Eventually in their teenage years, the duty of their crumbling House fell upon them. Coralie, still withered but only in body, began to pursue a career in Doumercene politics. She was personable, diligent, and driven by an admiration for the savior of House Allard: Her Holiness Nadine Lucienne. She began to shadow the Scion of Lightning, and spent many high school summers interning with Nadine’s party. Even if her role was minor, it was a meaningful step to her. Renault, for his part, was torn. His affinity for magic was growing, taking to the arcane like it was his mother tongue. He wrote runes as deftly as his own name, could speak spells with the linguistic precision of a scholar, and may very well have found himself with an early, full ride in one of Doumerc’s legendary universities. But, he didn’t want to abandon Coralie, who despite having grown popular by the time she graduated, was surrounded by people who manipulated and deceived for a living. It was too late for him to join her on the political stage, at least, not I the same capacity. He wanted to stay close. At sixteen he found a low-level politician tangentially related to Madam Lucienne’s party in need of interns. Renault’s social skills had improved somewhat from his proximity to his sister, but he was still politically fresh, and he’d learned well that the Allard name, especially when it belonged to such an outlier, held little weight despite Nadine’s position. So he was surprised to be invited onboard so readily. Until he actually met the man. He wasn’t a politician, more of a white collar grifter, and Renault had not been brought on because of his name, or initiative, but because of his magical aptitude. A good number of the interns were magically inclined, others weren’t kids at all, just adults who looked like they had no place in a noble’s court. Which made sense; none of them were going to be spending time there. Renault learned his first lesson in politics: Dirt leaves stains—keep your hands clean. Lobbying, bribery, blackmail and, occasionally, threats. Everything the grifter couldn’t do in the open, he delegated to the interns. Charms and illusions did wonders for minor-league espionage, and where backroom diplomacy failed, the more physically inclined of the bunch took charge. Renault broke more laws in a week than he had his whole life, which was not a high bar, but one that weighed on him nonetheless as those weeks turned to months. Was this Coralie’s life, too? He couldn’t believe if it was; she was always smiling, always looking so eager towards tomorrow, and Renault hardly wanted to see the next moment. By happenstance, it turned out that one of the people his grifter had pressured was in opposition to Nadine. His folding made things easier on the whole party—and by extension, Coralie. As can happen to anyone, the grifter’s luck eventually ran out. Whether he was outmaneuvered, or pushed the wrong person, or simply got sloppy, his crimes went public and his office collapsed. It was nothing short of divine luck that Renault wasn’t buried too, and had he been wiser, he might have taken the opportunity to start clean and refocus himself on his studies. Not so. He found another ambitious aristocrat, and this time when things went south he would make sure it wasn’t luck that spared him. Bringing along what remained of his former employer’s portfolio, Renault found himself a step above the other nameless, unpaid and unrecognized interns. When it came time to do his job, he remembered his lesson. He delegated, he used aliases, he kept his nose clean where he could and wore a mask where he couldn’t. Things moved slower, but he learned that was the proper way of things. Collapses like the grifter’s were rare, and were usually a sign that somewhere along the chain of diplomatic pressure, someone had failed to navigate gently enough. The people being blackmailed often wanted their secrets revealed as much as the people blackmailing them. This went on for a few years more. Renault would flit between internships, proving himself both effective and discrete, and found the means to continue his arcane studies. When he graduated, there was no shortage of candidates eager to have him on their campaign teams. This moved him out of the shadows and onto the stage of political theater, where he was finally able to talk face to face with the sorts of people whose careers he had helped stabilized and unstabilize. They were the worst. It was all fake, which he’d known perfectly well already, but having to interact with them was different. They were all arrogant or obsequious, dishonest by default, and they all absolutely hated each other. Even people representing the same parties, the same teams, smiled and shook hands with daggers behind their backs. Once again he couldn’t believe his sister thrived in a place like this. He searched, subtly, for dirt anyone might have had on her, anxious that she might have been as twisted as her company, but ultimately found nothing. In a way, that was worse. It would be devastating to learn she was never who he thought she was, but she was, and that made it all the more terrifying. Did she not know? Was Nadine’s party really some bastion of ethics? The Church certainly didn’t think so. How could someone like Coralie, who’d never worn a disingenuous smile in her life, survive in a place like this? It turned out she couldn’t. After years of good health, her illness returned suddenly, fiercely, and in the end, fatally. She was gone in the day it took Renault to rush home. The fall was inexplicable—even the doctors were stunned. There’d been no warning, no symptoms, she had been happy and healthy one moment, and the next she’d collapsed in the middle of a donor social. There was a brief and half-hearted investigation that fizzled from disinterest as quickly as it started. She was chronic, after all, it was just nature. Who would want to waste their time? Renault would. Like Coralie’s death, Renault’s turn was sudden. His current employer’s campaign crumbled when it was revealed he’d been embezzling from his own charities for a decade. Tragic and disgusting, good riddance. Then the CEO of a premier magitech company was ousted when her affair with a competitor’s bookkeeper became public. A high-profile House was thrown into chaos when it came to light they’d bribed a judge to dismiss a lawsuit against one of their own. Scandal after scandal hit the public, and it didn’t stop at Doumerc. A Rodion general who poisoned his opponent before the duel that helped secured his position. A beloved Rosarian author who’d been using ghost writers his whole career. A Lorenzian art collector dealing in counterfeits. Every week, for months, someone had their skeletons thrown out of their closet and into the open daylight. When it did eventually end, a slew of once-public-faces had simply vanished, and Renault returned to the political stage with a smile on his face. His involvement in the ordeal was an open secret; the result of his own efforts at finding the truth behind his sister’s death, culminating in a wanton divulgence of some of his portfolio. Some, he stressed giddily, but not all. He’d followed many threads, and found nothing, but was undeterred. Why rush? Renault was now a campaign manager, freelance. Few sought out his services, wary or outright fearful, but as the years went by people learned to answer when he knocked. He came to enjoy the façades, the nervousness in their smiles, the clamminess in their handshakes. Everyone hated each other, yes, but it felt good to cut a swathe through the aristocracy’s tangled hierarchy. His name never made the nightly news, but when someone’s career imploded, the nobles' eyes turned to him, and he smiled back. He kept clear of Nadine’s party, for the most part, though he did make efforts to cripple her opposition where he could. That they shared a family was already risk enough; she didn’t need someone with his reputation tied to her. Not when she so frequently butted heads with the Church. Renault’s view of the High Cardinal and her ilk only soured over time. As his leads dried up, he found himself more and more believing the Church had been involved in Coralie’s death. He’d made no small number of enemies, but no one as powerful as the Mother’s eyes and hands. She was herself a small fish compared to Nadine, but she’d done a lot for the Scion’s party. He was still undeterred, but knew that if he was going to take on the Church, he would need more than scandals. Sometimes there was no substitute for raw power. Renault was no soldier, he was a poor shot and had no talent for swordplay. What he did have was magic—but so did the Church, in much larger quantity and much stronger quality. So he turned his focus to the one thing they didn’t have. He went after the Curses. It did not end well. He was caught attempting to unravel the arcane lock set by Duchess Flores, and was promptly thrown in prison with little process. The Doumercene aristocracy collectively exhaled, and life went on. For about a year. Renault’s ascension to Scionhood was nothing less than divine comedy. How could the Mother choose someone like him? What purpose could he possibly serve in her designs? Renault didn’t know—he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that he was free, and that now he had all the time, and power, he needed. Weapon of Choice Renault isn't much for weapons. He's hopeless with a gun and hasn't held a sword for anything more than ceremony. If a confrontation is unavoidable and magic isn't an option, he keeps an old pair of knuckle dusters handy, a memento from his earliest days in politics. Misc. Theme tbd Renault is quite a talented dancer, especially with a partner. Has a passable singing voice but can't play an instrument to save his life.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

Ionna, Templar of Miquella

________________________________________ Ionna Rani Female | 24 | Rodion Templar of Wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy? _______________________________________________ One day, when the Scions' reach exceeds their reason but not their grasp, they will pose a dire question to the Federation. Malen'kiy mech, she is my answer. ________________________________________

"No one told me having a sacred duty would be this much fun!" Minor Holy Sigil Location Appears on her right shoulder, just above her prosthesis's anchor. Appearance Hair like fire, eyes a burning gold; Ionna strikes a distinctive figure—or would, were it not for her demeanor. Of all the words that may come to mind when one sees her, ‘imposing’ would not be among them. She’s taller than average, with lean muscle built under a scrutinized training routine, but most eyes go directly to her prosthesis. Her right arm is entirely magitech, housed most often in a Templar-gold casing that, while pretty, functions with the perfect control of a natural limb. When they’re done staring, people often then look to her face, perhaps expecting an answer. Instead, what they usually find is a smile, and eyes that welcome conversation from friend and stranger alike. Though very fond of her Templar uniform, she does have a preference for more comfortable clothes. Long sleeves, jackets, and hoodies are a staple to cover her arm, the casing of which she swaps for something darker and less ornate. Personality Most people would be surprised to find out Ionna is Rodion. Warm, friendly to a fault, easily excitable and perhaps a bit gullible, she entirely lacks the stereotypical frigidness of her homeland. Often the last to draw swords and the first to strike up conversations, even and sometimes especially with those who may not appear receptive to it. The life of a Templar both excites and fascinates her, but she’s also had to temper her expectations somewhat—in a good way. Her father has always impressed upon her the necessity for the Church’s influence over the Scions, and how important it is they be kept in line for everyone’s safety. However, rather than come into the job expecting to struggle with whoever she’s assigned to, she would rather believe them to be reasonable people. After all, Scion or not, humans can learn from their mistakes, and avoid them, too. To her, no matter the conflict there’s almost always a peaceful solution to be found. And if there isn’t…well, like her father, Ionna has no love for violence. But neither does she fear it. Biography It began, as many things do, with a demonstration of power. On a cloudy dawn in 981, when the lakeside village of Vuzkymist was inextricably occupied by its Kaudian neighbors, a Scion arrived to liberate it. By noon nothing remained, not of the Kaudians, nor the village. They called it “The Wrath of Vuzkymist”, as if to imply the people, so incensed by their occupation, would have dutifully chosen to see their village destroyed, rather than surrendered to the enemy. In the ruins of his birthplace, a Rodion scientist by the name of Sascha Rani lost his faith in the Scions. And the little syrota he had come to collect lost her home. She had been orphaned long before The Wrath of Vuzkymist, and was brought to Sascha’s attention when he heard tell of a young ward of his hometown church overloading their older, mana-based technology. He had come down to see her for himself when the Kaudians invaded, and despite everything, he was not disappointed. His status and stability made the adoption easy; in a month’s time she had his name. Ionna Rani. For a child, she recovered quickly. The attack did not leave her frightened and withdrawn, but rather, Ionna was boundlessly curious about the world, and especially other people. Living in a sizeable town not terribly far from Alvar, she enjoyed relative safety and comfort, though the Rani house was far from some lavish estate. Sascha spent much of his time away at work, or holed up in his workshop, neck-deep in personal projects. Often, Ionna was left in the care of her uncle, a former knight named Dragomir, well-reputed for his service repelling Kaudians at the border. Age and injury saw him walking with a cane, but he found many excuses to draw his sword even in retirement. Dragomir was tall, broad, and vicious as a gnarled bear, and Sascha was…much softer. He was kindhearted, passive, and seemed quite averse to conflict—not qualities many would say suited a Rodion, especially not other Rodions. So, Dragomir often stood as champion to the family name, defending it and his brother from conflict and slander. Ionna took much more after her father, which aggravated Dragomir to no end. When she was ten, he resolved to teach her swordplay, assuming she would be hardened in the crucible of combat. He prepared himself for the arduous task of instructing someone so seemingly disinterested, but as it turned out, that was the lesser challenge. Ionna took to the sword quite naturally, it was her levity that resisted. Every session, no matter how long or how battering, she smiled, and thanked him, and looked forward to the next. Over the years this never changed. His last hope came when he finally convinced her to step into the ring, fight a few duels herself. It was for naught; Ionna spent an hour before the fight chatting with the young man who had purportedly impugned her father’s honor, and when it came time to draw blades, they seemed like lifelong friends. Dragomir watched in horror as Ionna bested her opponent, and what ought to have been considered a humiliating defeat at the hands of a teenager with no record, was instead played off with good-humored laughs, and kind wishes of farewell. She was utterly incorrigible. Worse, he was too proud to abandon her. What time she didn’t spend training or socializing, she aided her father in his workshop. She wasn’t permitted anywhere near his official duties, but for his personal projects he often asked for her help directly—and she always, enthusiastically agreed. She had little technical expertise, and while well-educated, she was by no means qualified for advanced robotics. She did, however, provide an excellent source of energy. Ionna was a mage by the most technical of terms. She had zero aptitude for spellcasting of any sort, even the lowliest of parlor tricks were beyond her capabilities. What she did have was an astoundingly large pool of mana. With practice, she no longer shorted every bit of arcane circuitry she engaged with, and could easily provide power to her father’s prototypes. He was fascinated with magitechnology, with the influence of human will on machines. As time went on, fewer of his inventions needed a raw outpouring of power, and instead required her to carefully manipulate her mana output. As with swordplay, this too became natural to her with time, and practice. She liked being useful to him, they spent more time together this way. Near the end of her twentieth year, Doumerc successfully created the first artificial limb, and many of the Dominion’s governmental robotics sectors swerved to find ways to improve and weaponize the concept, Sascha’s included. He was away from home much more often, and for an entire year, Ionna saw worryingly little of her father. Dragomir, for his part, did his best to distract her with duels and training—though he was growing too old to keep up with her. It was the first time he had seen her truly distraught. Sascha didn’t call, or write, and what little time he did spend at home he hardly acknowledged her. She became convinced that, somehow, she had upset him, and it was beyond Dragomir's power to change her mind. Even with an old soldier’s heart, he found the treatment cruel. Eventually however, when Sascha did return in earnest, all it took was a smile for Ionna to light up again. She came to him like a loyal hound, all neglect forgotten. Sascha burned with new inspiration, and the two of them quickly fell back into habit. Dragomir did not see Ionna again for months. When he did, her right arm was gone. In its place was a crude prosthesis awash with veins of arcane circuitry. It moved a bit stiffly, but responded down to the slightest motors. Not biotechnology, Sascha asserted, but magitechnology, anchored not to the brain, but the will. Dragomir was aghast; Sascha had created an artificial limb, but he’d mutilated his own daughter to do it. He nearly reported it, partly for the ethical failings, and partly out of his own patriotism. Regardless of how it had been done, it had been done, and the Dominion ought to know about it so they could get ahead. But alas, twenty years away from war had softened him to his niece’s pleas, and ultimately he agreed to say nothing. For now. Two more years passed, and Sascha’s magitech prosthetic evolved. A fine-tuning of mechanics combined with Ionna’s control over her own mana saw it functioning as naturally as her old arm, better even. With long sleeves and a glove, the difference was all but imperceptible. The last time Dragomir saw her, she dueled with a blade Sascha had embedded into it. The way she moved, she might as well have been born that way. His congratulations were empty, and though he expressed his displeasure to Sascha in private, his brother brushed him off. So be it. Dragomir decided it was time the Dominion knew. Too late. They were both gone the next day, and though the house was untouched, the workshop was empty. All of the prototypes, all of the research, vanished. A week later, they reappeared on the news when Sascha was accepted into the Church’s order, where his secrets would no doubt be put to good use. And Ionna, standing excitedly beside him, was now a Templar. Weapon of Choice Technically speaking, Ionna always has a weapon on-hand. Her prosthetic arm is equipped with a retracting blade which, when deployed, can extend to a proper sword's length, or be shortened. Its single edge carries a slight curve and, while kept sharp, the arm's connection with her own mana allows her to ignite it with arcane energy, making it useful for defense against attacks both physical and magical. Misc. Theme tbd In her first days as a Templar, between her casual clothing and friendly, almost servicing demeanor, she was mistaken several times for a maid. Her penchant for tidying her surroundings, as well as cooking and handing out snacks has some still unsure. Has yet to win a single bout of Rock Paper Scissors with her prosthetic.

Mol's CS Thing

I O N N A
I O N N A

^{“Nothing that can't be fixed over a hot meal and some trust exercises.”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness. Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military achievements, diplomatic settlements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations. Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themsevles, having developed a combative style over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor. Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the squires of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck. When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way. Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends where they ought to have made enemies, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself. In her eighteenth year, Liura was killed. It happened on the road from Itenaire, in an ambush that only Ionna survived to recount, though poorly. She said that Liura sacrificed herself heroically, and when pressed, said nothing more. She returned to Atutania with her sister’s sword, and her affinity awakened. She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight. Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Social ⬗ Empathetic ⬗ Trusting ⬗ Optimistic ⬗ Driven ⬗ Dense A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—fostered prodigy. Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and duelist training, to the settlement of squirely disputes, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a proper battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades. Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her. Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some quickened steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her hold on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.

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Amygdala Circuit

Besca hugged her tightly, and though it seemed like minutes, it still wasn’t anywhere near long enough. When she let go, Dahlia swooped in and squeezed Quinn like a buoy in a storm, and she guessed it would take a crowbar to pry her away before she was ready. Besca couldn’t blame her, they’d been given no time at all to prepare, and she doubted either of them had gotten much, if any, sleep.

The logical part of her knew it wouldn’t be that bad, and that when stacked against the alternatives, this was perhaps one of the better outcomes. She wasn’t dying, and RISC hadn’t lost her per se. The point was to rebuild trust between Runa and Casoban, both ways, and if they were going to treat each other like allies again then there shouldn’t be anything to fear.

But she was very, very afraid.

The hangar was empty, save for the three of them. Roaki had said goodbye in the dorms, but it was clear to Besca that the girl didn’t quite understand what was happening. Not exactly shocking, and though it was tempting to tell her, not kindly, that Quinn being sent away was her fault, it wouldn't have helped anything and regardless, she wasn't even certain that was true anymore.

Dragon stood stoically in its cove, but Ablaze had already been shipped down and moved over to the CSC’s station, The Ange. They had requested Quinn come down separately, and a glance at the TV this morning had showed that there was some sort of welcoming party waiting for her at the landing site. She wanted to accompany her, but the Board had her shackled here managing their side of the transition, and Dahlia wouldn’t be allowed to get any further from Dragon than absolutely necessary until all this business was finished.

Speaking of.

The girls separated, Dahlia wiping her eyes, but keeping on a brave face all things considered. Besca checked the time, frowned. She went back over to Quinn.

“I’m gonna call you tonight, okay? Before bed, once you’re settled in. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.” She ran a hand through Quinn’s hair, forced herself to smile and even made it look real. “I know it’s gonna be scary at first, but so was coming here, right? Think of this like…like you’re sleeping over. That’s all. I’ve worked with some of Casoban’s folks before, alright? You’re gonna be in good hands, I promise. First few days’ll feel long, but then it’ll go by in a snap. Just…” she pulled her in again, sighed. There were words on the tip of her tongue that Quinn deserved to hear, but that just wouldn’t form. “Just remember everything we talked about. You’re gonna do just fine, hero.”

There wasn’t much left to say. She let Dahlia give her another long goodbye, but when the calls started coming in, they had to wrap it up. Today was not the day to push their luck.

With its usual fanfare of lights and alarms, the elevator opened, and Quinn, alone with her luggage, descended down towards Illun. For a while there was nothing but void around her, eerily similar to the lake she couldn’t escape. Through the hardlight boundary the expanse was still, without even a ripple to disturb it.

A longing pulled at her, reaching up back towards the Aerie, only to wilt as they plunged further and further away. It wrapped itself around her, seeking warmth and comfort.

The world drew closer, Casoban expanded beneath her. They weren’t dropping near a dueling site, or a crater, or the ruined land of a singularity. It looked like farmland, massive squares of crop fields all knit together into an agricultural quilt big enough to drape over a city. At the furthest end, where the elevator appeared to be leading her, was a manicured crescent of trees—an orchard of some kind. As she drew near, she could see a blot sharpening into a crowd, cordoned off some ways away from the landing zone.

Eventually the elevator came to a rest, and she saw that there was a second, smaller gathering awaiting her. Thirty or so people, all in the cream and gold uniforms of the CSC, stood under a constructed arch of shrubbery and brilliant flowers. As the hardlight boundary flickered away, the morning breeze greeted her, and there was a sudden roaring.

No—that was cheering.

They were cheering. Applauding. A banner beneath the arch unfurled, and upon the canvas was a strikingly beautiful painting of Ablaze, with Quinn standing on its shoulder, braid flaring in the wind. Another dropped just above it that read: WELCOME QUINNLASH.

The unease coiled within her slackened in confusion as the excitement settled. Gentle orchestral music began to play through speaker stacks, and a familiar face stepped forward. The man was short, his hair was thin, but overall he seemed more put-together than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a sharp, more decorative cut of the uniform, and even his moustache was combed and shiny with product.

“Quinnlash Loughvein,” Toussaint said grandly. “Casoban welcomes you, enthusiastically and with open hearts!”

The crowd exploded again, and Toussaint stepped over, guiding her off of the elevator. The hardlight boundary sprang back to life behind her, and the platform rose back into the air, homeward bound. They came to stand alongside a small offshoot of about a dozen people, some military, some wearing the patches of technicians.

A boy and a girl who didn’t appear much older than Quinn herself stood at attention, both smiling, whispering excitedly between themselves as she walked past. They wore the same uniforms, but a pilot’s undersuit poked up beneath their collars. Another woman, who had neither cheered nor applauded, regarded Quinn more evenly. Her uniform was different, a mesh of cloth and armor. Spaulders adorned her shoulders, and down her left arm were scales of metal plating leading into a gauntlet. Her right arm was obscured behind a shortcloak, but her hand rested calmly upon the hilt of an ornate rapier.

The last noteworthy individual approached. He looked younger than Toussaint, with fuller, darker hair and a face much less lined with stress. His sharp goatee was perfectly trimmed, and his eyes were bright despite being entirely organic. His suit was an oceanic blue, lined with the same cream white as the CSC uniforms, and on his lapel were a small grouping of pins; the Casobani flag, the symbol of the Illun Accord, and finally, the sigil of the Prime Minister.

He reached out and took her hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Olivier Moroux,” he said. “Casoban is delighted to have you, miss Loughvein. I want to extend my sincerest thanks for your heroism. I think we can all sleep a little more soundly knowing you’re protecting us.”

There was a moment of silence. The only ones close enough to hear them were Toussaint and the three or four security personnel behind Moroux. Looking around, there were no cameras besides those belonging to the press, who were much too far away to capture anything more than their shaking hands. This didn’t appear to be a show, nor did there seem to be any expectation for her to perform, like she had in the other interviews.

She was, however, expected to respond.

Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

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