Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

The maître de bowed politely and left them, passing by the counter where the rest of the wait staff seemed to linger with their new orders and instead disappearing directly through a pair of ornate doors leading to the kitchen. Despite nearly every table being occupied, it was a safe assumption that their meals would not take long.

Cyril hardly touched any more of the appetizers, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He would have had to choose then between talking and eating.

“So did you do much shooting, before this?” he asked, swirling his wine like it was a decoration and not a drink. “Piloting, I mean. I’ve heard that pilots who get firearm weapons sometimes find themselves spontaneously possessing an uncanny sort of accuracy. I know the cannon creates quite a generous impact but, well, you still hit a lot of your shots. I’m a little envious, really—the only swordplay I know comes from stage-fighting, and that’s done nothing for me in the cockpit. I’ve had to take fencing lessons from Camille, and…eugh,” he pulled a face, set his drink down. “Talk about brutal. Guess it paid off well enough, though, the other day. It’s just wild how naturally it seems to come for some.”

Before Quinn could answer, they were joined by a young woman. Like everyone else present, she was dressed impeccably, wearing a gown of black and gold that made her look like she was attending her own red-carpet event. But the look on her face was not one of a star, but rather starstruck.

“Master Cyril,” she said, voice a bit shaky through her smile. “I—”

“Claire!” he beamed, blinking at the shock that struck her. “Claire, right? From the ‘Lucre’ premier? You were at the signing backstage. Oh please tell me I’m right, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“No! No—I mean, you’re right, I just…you remember me?”

“Bien sûr! How could I forget such a lovely face?”

That face flushed a deep red even for the low light. She took a moment to recompose herself, and when her eyes darted to Quinn it seemed to send her right back to the start. Cyril leaned in, smiling up at her expectantly. When she did finally find her bearings, she went on in great length about how much she was by his performance in some recent production or another. She spoke with the insight of someone well-versed in theatre, not just as a member of the audience, but also as a member of the stage.

Cyril listened intently, smiling and nodding and politely rebuffing compliments here and there. Eventually she thanked him for the time, and he thanked her for the praise, and before she left she lingered a moment longer as if she meant to say something to Quinn as well, but suddenly seemed to decide against it. Shyly, she bowed her head, thanked them both again, and shuffled off back to her table across the restaurant.

“Ah,” Cyril said once they were alone again. “Sorry, I hope you didn’t think that was rude of me, I have a hard time turning people away. I’m sure you know all about that, though. You must be the most popular girl in Runa—well, you and Miss St. Senn, I mean.”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn’s question caught Cyril mid-sip, and startled him so much that he nearly ruined the white silken tablecloth with wine. Thankfully he managed to swallow with only a dignified cough, but the surprise remained blatant on his face, starkened by the candlelight.

“Hate you?” he said, with as much emphasis as a private-tone could contain. “Why would you think—”

Then he paused, and it might seem to Quinn like his thoughts had caught up with her own. She had humiliated Casoban in their duel with Helburke, it had cleaved a rift into their union with Runa so deep it was nearly severed completely. There had been news stories aplenty calling her character into question, her allegiances, her motives. How could he be surprised?

But then he giggled again, much less restrained. “Quinnlash,” he said. “The other day, RISC stopped the Modir from turning Casoban into a Westwel encore. We watched you, specifically, fight off half a dozen of them—with, as you mentioned, a little help. But all the same, Quinnlash Loughvein and Dahlia St. Senn saved Casoban just as much as anyone in the CSC. I’m sure the news outlets in our homes will assign the weight of that accomplishment differently, but that’s just politics. Boring. What matters is what the people think, how they see you. And they saw you.”

He leaned in on his elbows, peering at her over his glasses. “If you ask me, I think this day, literally today—you stepping onto the Ange, Ablaze in our hangar—I think this is the safest anyone in Casoban has felt for a long, long time.”

The maître de returned then, notepad in hand. He didn’t need to say anything, just smiled and waited as Cyril gave one last glance through the menu as a formality.

“Oh, alright, you know what? I think this is a special enough occasion to jump the line down to one I’ve been waiting for. The veal osso buco, s’il vous plait.”

The man scratched his order down, took the menu, then gave the same expectant smile to Quinn.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

The ceremony was quite lovely, Ionna thought. She wasn’t the most devoutly religious person, per se, but it wasn’t like there was much to debate when it came to the mother. How often was faith anchored in undeniable fact? In a way, it seemed odd to her to call it faith at all; proof of the Mother’s power was evident in their lives every day, and for some, that power was their life, forever.

She supposed her only conflict came in the labeling of that power as a blessing. Her father was a cynic, he had few nice things to say about Scionhood—at least in private—and rarely regarded it with the appropriate level of social reverence besides. But Ionna admired the saints. She found them to be profoundly human, and in each one she found both virtues and warnings. Rosaria Lima blessed wealth with one hand, and unrequited love with another. Saint Durand had his scholarly gifts, but was also quite fond of the drink. And the holy lady Auriel, a figurehead in her own home nation, a symbol of stalwart power—and also the patron of dutiful wives? They all had flaws, but they also had much to teach.

That was how she viewed Scionhood; as a test. Not of strength, or piety, but rather of humanity. Could someone wield so much power without losing touch? The Church seemed wary, and perhaps rightfully so. Ionna, for now, was only curious. Some seemed perfectly capable, while others justified her father’s views.

How would Prince Lucas fare, she wondered. At least for Sir Tyler’s sake, she hoped he did well. The poor guy seemed utterly wrung out. Seeing them together at the after party did little to assuage her worries for him—for both of them.

But there was so much going on, she didn’t worry for long. Ionna hadn’t doffed her armor yet, she was much too excited for that, though she had reeled back the crown and helmet. As well, the transformation was halted at her right shoulder. She’d threaded the crystal’s mana into her prosthetic’s anchor, which felt delightfully seamless, and made controlling the armor quite easy. She spent several moments materializing and dematerializing her cloak, rolling and unrolling it almost like a rug. Blessedly, Dame Irina was not present to scold her for it.

Or maybe she was. The manor was massive, after all. Ionna wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that all of Veradis was here, mingling, gossiping, drinking champagne out of fancy little cups. She held one herself for a few minutes, just to get a taste of that one-percent lifestyle, before setting it aside untouched. Her tolerance was laughably low, and the last thing she wanted to do was get drunk in front of a mansion full of Estoran nobility.

She’d given Dom space to mingle, but kept her in view. She hoped her Scion might open up a little, let some of her colleagues see how nice she was. It had taken her all of thirty seconds to find a kindred soul in Sir Zacharie, and she was sure even with her brief interactions that a few of the other Scions would absolutely love her. In the worst case, she would swoop back in and keep her company.

For the time being, however, Ionna set herself towards being social. Not at all a difficult task for her, usually, but with a party this size she felt a bit like a dog surrounded by tennis balls, too paralyzed with choice to snatch any of them. In the end, she decided to eschew the assembled nobility for the time being, and focus on meeting some of the people she’d failed to beforehand. Keen eyes scanned the crowd, and quickly locked on to the first familiar face they saw—

The Scion of Fire.

A flash of panic sparked alive inside her. Could she be blamed? The man was frightfully large and looked like he’d been grown in a lab with the express purpose of intimidating as many people as possible. Just looking at him, she thought, her father had good reason to be as wary as he was. Of all the Scions, with all of their mystical domains, Theobald Gaumond was perhaps the most dangerous. Or rather, he could be; Ionna rather believed he could go another way. Regardless, it would be impossible to tell from just standing there, watching.

“Your Holiness!” she greeted, swooping to his side with the swiftness and grace that might be unexpected of someone in armor. A testament to the artisanship of its smith, surely. “We didn’t get a chance to meet back during the ceremony. I’ve heard so much about you! Though I guess these days it’s getting hard to find people back home who don’t know your name, huh?”

She stuck out her hand—her real one, after disregarding a worry about how strong his grip would be—and offered a grand smile up at him. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but, it’s really an honor to work with you! Or, ah, I guess ‘around you’ is more accurate. Anyway, how’s the party treating you?”

---

@Xiro Zean

Amygdala Circuit

Cyril made a rather undignified squealing sound, big toothy grin splitting his face again. “Great! Fantastique! We can head right out, you’ll love it, it’s—no! Wait, I’ve got to change first. If I show up to Lumière d’Or in tie-dye they’ll probably call it treason. Two minutes, meet you by the elevator! Ta!”

Then he scampered off, and when Quinn followed more slowly into the auto walkway, she could still see him in the distance, jogging to the residential wing, though Sybil had already vanished. The hall was quiet again when she reached it, as was the walk back to the elevator. This was to be the new norm then, it seemed. A perpetual blanket of silence, intended for comfort, but perhaps unintentionally smothering.

Thankfully, she wasn’t left in it for long. True to his word, Cyril returned minutes later in a new outfit. He wore a thick-stitched, navy-blue sweater cut short at the elbows and the midriff, beneath which was the familiar pilot’s suit, as well as slim pants and some comfortable, if stylish looking shoes. His hair was pulled back into a high tail that looked intentionally messy, and over his eyes were a pair of small, round sunglasses with only the bottom half of their lenses.

“There we go! Comfy and just a little chic, perfect for a casual drop-in. They’ll love you there—stopping by on your first day, out of the blue, dressed like you’re on the move and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mmh!” He kissed his fingers emphatically, then called the lift.

The ride up was mostly quiet. Cyril tapped excitedly on his phone, perhaps to warn the restaurant they were coming, though it seemed that he liked the spontaneity too much for that. He smiled at her, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet the whole way. Only when the lift came to a stop did he regain his composure, straightening up, grin mellowing bouncing halted.

“Deep breath,” he said, though it seemed like he was actually talking to himself.

The doors opened and Cyril stepped immediately out. Quinn followed close behind. They’d come to what was designated as ‘UPPER COMMONS’, which, judging by Toussaint’s introduction, was likely the floor above whatever the lower shopping section was. The lights were brighter here, the walls whiter—not that she could see much of them. The level was incredibly large, so much so that the other side tapered almost into invisibility. No wonder there was a monorail, it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes just to cut straight across, never mind walking around.

There was no tree here, as there was on the Aerie, but rather a prodigious fountain placed dead-center, built within and around an expansive marblework scene. It depicted a crowd, at least from their end, of men and women, horses, dogs, soldiers in armor with spear and sword in hand, farmer with spade and woodsman with axe, scholars in intricately-carved robes, clutching books at their sides, debating with one another, pointing onward. All were in motion, moving towards the other end of the long, stone platform, flanked on either end by jets of water that curved inwards, making it appear as though it were raining upon the voyage. At the far end, a denser stone crowd was gathered, and their details meshed together, their shoulders pressed close, almost like a single mass.

Standing above them on a platform were two figures, a man and a woman. The man held a sword in one hand, which pierced the woman’s chest, but he was turned away from her, holding in his other hand what might have been her heart. His expression was fearful, and pained. The woman’s, by contrast, was entirely serene, and the gentlest smile had been carved upon her lips. Her hands were outstretched to the sword, grasping it. Looking closely, one could see that the man’s fingers were loose upon the hilt, holding it only barely, and that the woman’s were closed upon the guard and blade, almost like she’d pushed it into her own chest. The pseudo-rain fell hardest upon them.

“These floors are open to tourists most of the time. All the work is up there,” Cyril said, gesturing up. High above them, a large section of the ceiling was glass, across which walked a plethora of people in CSC uniforms. “We’re close by, thankfully, restaurant’s right this way!”

True to his point, the shops and lounges and walkways were riddled with civilians. There were few around the lift, understandably, but it took no more than a few moments for the nearest ones to notice them. On the Aerie, Quinn’s fans were mostly quiet, and kept away with their phones out, whispering amongst each other. Here, the first person to see them dropped her shopping bag onto the ground with a glassy crunch and let out an ecstatic shriek. Eyes turned to her, then quickly found Quinn and Cyril. A whole section of the floor suddenly burst to life as people abandoned their meals, conversations, and store-going and spilled into the common walkways.

Uniformed guards, evidently not having expected them, snapped to attention and set about surveying the crowd. There didn’t seem to be a mob forming, and no one was rushing the pair, so for now there was no call to set up a cordon. Of course, that didn’t mean the crowds watched silently. Even though they didn’t come too close, they did shout and cheer. There was no small amount of applause as they passed, and amongst the ecstatic cries of Cyril’s name, Quinn could here quite a few people shouting her own between encouraging whoops and whistles.

Cyril preened like a peacock, waving, bowing, blowing kisses. A flurry of camera flashes followed them and he seemed apt at catching every single one with a sharp pose or a photogenic smile. He took a moment to run over to a small cluster, shaking a man’s hand with some familiarity before returning to Quinn and leading her the rest of the way.

Eventually they reached it: ‘Lumière d’Or’. It was built deep into the wall, and the entrance was an alcove, behind which were a pair of thick oaken doors. The desk out front was manned by a single, tuxedoed woman. She looked shocked when they approached, but that quickly melted into a pleased smile.

“Master Derisa! What a pleasure, we weren’t expecting you.”

“Few ever do. But it’s our new friend’s first day aboard and I thought there would be no better introduction in Casoban than to have lunch here. Would it be trouble to prepare our table?”

She waved him off. “Never trouble for you. Come right on in, we’d be honored.”

They made their way through the double doors, into a hallway of lacquered wooden walls and deep golden lights, which opened up into the restaurant proper. Massive, easily three or four times the size of Tohoki Grill, but with no less atmosphere. The room was comfortably dim, save for pillars of golden light, which, as she looked, Quinn would see were not pillars at all, but holograms of trees with digital roots dug into the hardwood floors, and branches that spread and interlocked and made a resplendent, flaxen canopy of the ceiling.

Round tables lined the floor, lavish booths at the fringes, and further, along the curving outer wall, were windows like the ones down in the dormitory. On a small stage opposite, a band played somber, melancholic music. Gentle piano and tender saxophone, while a man in a white suit sang quietly in Casobani. A pleasant undercurrent to the conversation-heavy air.

The maître de awaited them, expressing a similar sentiment as the woman outside. He led them through the floor, and as they walked, nearly every table in the full house turned to see. However, the mellow air was persevered; no one shouted or got up or did so much as momentarily pause before returning to their meals. Eventually they came to a small table beside one of the windows, which was given a smidgen more space than the rest. As they took their seats, he left them menus, and Cyril ordered a wine with much too long of a name while their cups were filled with water. Then, they were left alone for a moment.

Cyril exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since the elevator.

“Now, that’s more like it. Not so loud, not so quiet, and just enough attention. You know, almost all the restaurants here have absurd reservation waitlists, but Lumière d’Or is particularly ridiculous. They have one planet-side, in Merain. Four months to get in—and they might still turn you away at the door if they don’t like you. I’ve heard some people plan their whole year around a dinner up here.” He flipped open the menu, nudging his half-glasses down. “I’ve made it my goal to try everything on here at least once. I think only the chefs have ever done that. Maybe Moroux. He seems the sort. TV pitches him as a down-to-earth, country boy but, well, you’ve seen the goatee. Not a lot of farmers with manicured moustaches.”

The menu was large, but focused. Very intensely Casobani, from its seafood dishes to its steaks, and pastas. There were a few recipes she might recognize from the cookbooks back on the Aerie, albeit they were expanded, refined, and though the prices weren’t listed, likely immensely expensive.

The maître de returned with wine, and bread, and a small plate of what he called ‘artesian bruschetta’, and then left them again. Cyril set his menu down, apparently having decided, and turned his attention Quinn.

“So, Quinnlash Loughvein. Wow. Just, wow. I’m honestly so surprised I’m sitting across from you; I was beginning to worry I’d never get a chance like this! I mean, Sybil and I, really, we sort of owe our jobs to you. I’m not sure what state the CSC would be in if you hadn’t intervened at the duel.” He giggled quietly into his hand. “It was happening during one of my performances, you know. I actually missed my walk-on cue because I was watching backstage. You were…enthralling. Really, unbelievable. You fought a Tormont and won, and that was your first time actually, you know, fighting? They tell stories about that family here to scare kids out of becoming pilots! And then the Modir afterwards, I just...how in the world did you manage it?”

Amygdala Circuit

“Really? You wear it loose? And nothing gets…er…nibbled on?” Cyril asked. “They made such a big deal about it in training, keeping yourself all bundled up, nothing astray. Made it sound like the brain might reach up and snag anything dangling off the chair.”

“I told you they didn’t mean it literally.”

“What can I say, I’m an impressionable young man. Besides, I have to worry about it, I’m an actor. No modium scarring for me, thank you, the plugs are plenty.”

“He wears a swimming cap when he pilots,” Sybil said with a deadpan smirk.

Cyril ran a hand protectively over his hair.

Quinn’s answers seemed to have sated their curiosity, like throwing a mostly-bare bone to a pair of hungry dogs. She could comfortably assume their appetites would return soon enough.

And speaking of…

“I’m starving,” Cyril declared, as if speaking to an audience. “They had us skip breakfast for the ceremonies this morning, and now it’s almost lunch! Ugh! I’m practically withering away. Sybil, you’ll have to wheel me to Lumière d’Or.”

Sybil huffed, not remotely amused. “I’m offstage, and I’m not dolling myself up to go back out.”

“Ordering in again, you’re no fun! There’s so many wonderful restaurants up there, and people love it when we go out! You know, if you’re not careful, Quinnlash is going to be more popular around here than you are.”

“Tragique,” Sybil said, already leaving.

“And we’re a team!” he called after her. “It’s good for us to be seen togeth—and she’s gone.” His head rolled back to Quinn, and he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, c’est la vie. Well, my legs need stretching and my ears need sounds that aren't space on the other side of the windows. How about it? Care to hit the town with me? A little fine dining?”

Amygdala Circuit

The twins shared a surprised look—or, as much surprise as Sybil seemed capable of expressing—and then turned their focus back to Quinn. Had she said something wrong? Insulted them somehow? Having spent the lion’s share of her life in a single room, it wouldn’t have been much of a shock for her to have made some sort of social faux pas without realizing it. Could she expect mercy if she had? Or would Casoban treat her like the Euseran media, and see her brief tenure with the CSC ruined before it even began?

Then Cyril’s eyes lit up. “Your accent!” he beamed. “We thought it was just a face! They said your mother was Casobani, but we figure the Runan accent is so strong, surely—oh! Do you speak any?”

“Con, they would have had her show it off,” Sybil said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Besides, you hardly speak any yourself.”

“Excuse you, I had to recite a ten minute monologue in Casobani for Le Prince de Solrivie. For which I won two awards from the Cultural Institute.”

“And you forgot it on the ride home,” she said, rolling her eyes back to Quinn. “Don’t humor him, he’ll never go away.”

Cyril waved her off with an exaggerated “Psh!” and then, after rummaging through his pocket for a moment, produced a small handful of different-colored hairbands, and offered them out to Quinn. “Take as many as you need, that's quite a lot of hair. I used to have mine down to my back and I found that hard enough to manage. Do you pilot with it like that?”

Amygdala Circuit

Minutes or hours passed, but Quinn’s determination seemed unbreakable. At some point, the degree of numbness afforded to her by Quinnlash’s aid lessened, perhaps out of frustration, or perhaps as a way of pushing Quinn’s own tolerance for pain. It didn’t slow her down any, though her progress was little improved. Clearly it would take time to master a course like this, but time was something she now had in abundance.

What she did not have any more was privacy.

Midway through a leap sabotaged by ill-footing, the door to the rec space slid open. Quinn had just enough time to see two blurred smudges of people enter as her face smacked into the cushioned platform, and she fell back onto the matted ground.

A sharp hiss and a sympathetic, “Oooh!” when she landed. As the world spun back into focus, she could see clearly that the newcomers were none other than the twins who had been present at her welcome. With how hectic the morning had been, she hadn’t really gotten a chance to look at them.

They were the same height, and shared a similar lean build, but from there the similarities were scarce. Their uniforms were gone, and the girl now wore a black sweater bearing the faded logo of some band, which was too large for her, with one sleeve rolled up to her elbow, and the other hanging a few inches past her hand. Black pants, black shoes, black nail polish, black lipstick, black eyeliner which made her seafoam eyes pop. Her hair, which had been pulled into an elegant flat tail earlier, now hung long and straight like an ebony curtain, covering half her face completely.

The boy had seemingly stolen all of her colors. In place of his uniform he wore a tie-dyed shirt that looked handmade, and a pair of pale salmon-colored pants. His nails were painted as well, though rather than black, each finger was a different color. He had a rather poofy and ineffectual scarf draped over his shoulders, and his hair, which reached just past his shoulders, was fluffy and voluminous where his sister’s was flat and dense. Even their expressions seemed entirely opposite; he wore a wide, toothy grin that reached well into his eyes, and she seemed almost muted, though not outright scowling.

“Told you,” the girl said, voice flat. “Straight to the playground, just like you.”

“Never so happy to be wrong!” said the boy, marching over with his sister in tow. “It’s real nasty right off the bat, isn’t it? You’d think they wouldn’t make the beginning so hard. I made it right about…there,” he pointed to about halfway across the segmented beam section right ahead of where she’d fallen. “Before I had to call it quits my first day. Heads up—they move. Chipped one of my teeth falling down.”

“It was hilarious.”

“She hasn’t even tried it.” he said, jutting a thumb back at her. In response, she flipped him the bird, and he stuck out his tongue, still grinning. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he turned back to Quinn and offered a hand to help her up. “Rude! So sorry! I’m Cyril, and this—”

“Sybil,” the girl said.

“We’re the Derisas, and your new coworkers! It feels a bit strange welcoming someone who’s technically our senior, but…welcome!”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Ionna beamed, bouncing excitedly on her feet when Dominika appeared to finally join them. She had felt so awkward standing apart from her Scion during the ceremony—a failing of formality she was sure Dame Irina had noticed, but, at this point it was only one of many, and not even the most grievous. Between that, and her own lateness, she had worried Dominika would be cross with her, but by her smiles and how freely she shared her own secret, that seemed blessedly untrue.

They hadn’t known each other long, but Ionna could already tell Dominika was a sweetheart. Some Scions were very…into themselves; not to say there was anything wrong with confidence, but she could hear uncle Dragomir in the back of her mind, reminding her that loud opponents were always covering up some weakness they didn’t want exploited. Dominika was very reserved in contrast, but in some ways, she was also very open. Ionna could see it in the way she talked to people, and how she carried herself, almost like she thought she was a burden rather than a figure of divine power. There was something so refreshingly honest about her.

She’d told her dad as much, and he seemed pleased. That was all the approval she needed. Besides, they shared the same inquisitive nature, and Dominika wasted no time in joining her fascination with Sir Chaudoir’s visor.

Despite that it seemed none of her guesses were true, Ionna still listened carefully to his explanation, nudging Dominika with her elbow. “He’s got heat vision!” she said excitedly.

When the Templar gave his full attention to her Scion, she stood back, eager to give Dominika the chance to strut her stuff. Whether or not something like this actually was in her wheelhouse, Ionna didn’t know, but either way, it was still good to get her talking with the rest of their fun little club. Hopefully the attention didn’t overwhelm her.

She thought, moments before being overwhelmed herself.

The princess’s rather adorable departure heralded the arrival of someone else. Dame Gusev approached and Ionna was not prepared. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to gasp, and then she had to dip into reserves to keep from frantically elbowing Dominika. Instead she stood still, clutching the box like it cradled a glass baby and not a dwindling supply of cookies, and stared up wide-eyed at the woman. She didn’t even hear what Sonia said, she had to catch the mental rerun a few moments after, when she came back to reality.

“Hah!” she barked, sharp and a bit too loud. “Alligators. That’s—wow—that’s cool. You’re cool. Your eyepatch is cool.”

For the nth time that morning, the alarm inside her designed to detect unprofessionalism blared itself ragged. She bit down on her tongue in an attempt to jam the unfettered pipeline between her brain and her mouth, and opted instead to stand quietly back while Dame Gusev addressed Sir Chaudoir, praying that Incepta might mercifully smite her into the ground, or manifest as a being of holy light and throw her through a window.

---

@Hero@Scribe of Thoth@Abstract Proxy

Amygdala Circuit

The transitional area between the wings of the pilot’s floor was slightly wider than the hallway, but the length made it seem much narrower. Shooting down the center was what looked like a sidewalk, only in motion. An escalator laid flat, split into one path moving forward, and another moving back, towards her. As she stepped on, it carried her dutifully forth at a modest but steady pace, but a few exploratory steps would show her she could walk just fine to speed things along if she wished.

On either side were windows into a few of the inner-walled rooms, some shuttered, some open. The gym was decently sized, and filled with a variety of machines and free-weights, not too dissimilar to the Aerie’s setup, if a bit more expansive. One of the talent suites was partially shuttered, but she could make out what looked like a messy art studio through the slats.

The trip was, like the rest of the floor, rather quiet. Waiting for her at the end was another door, unlabeled, but when she walked through it became immediately clear that this was the recreational space Toussaint had mentioned.

Massive, at least two-thirds of the wing. The room was a giant half-circle of open space, with its farthest curving wall paneled with a brighter, off-white color, like cream or eggshells. A window easily three times the length of the ones on the other wing sat in the center, facing out into space, and with so much width it was easier to see that the station was set into a gentle rotation, and before long, Illun would come into view below.

Scattered throughout the space were a variety of miniature activity ecosystems. Furthest was a decently-sized boxing ring, followed by what appeared to be an electronically-regulated fencing piste. Further down there was a flood of plastic mats laid out on the ground, upon which was an expanded easel holding a long banner-canvas. The painting was mostly finished, depicting what appeared to be an old royal court, with the king at the center, surrounded on either side by a row of knights and nobles all vying for his attention, all with one hand behind their backs, clutching knives or daggers. It seemed the last section on either side was yet to be completed. Furthest to her right, flush against the wall, was what looked like a theater stage. There were props scattered on its floor, swords and cloaks and a gleaming silver goblet.

Finally, behind it all, closer to the window, was something akin to gymnastic gauntlet, but what might have been more accurately described as an obstacle course. Raised platforms over padded floors, elevated strips meant to be crossed on grip strength alone, segmented balance beams that would have to be leapt across, and more still. It ran the entire length of the room, and could hardly be seen from one end to the other. It seemed designed to test every aspect of a runner’s balance and technique, and of all the things present here, it also seemed to be the oldest.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Ionna was dizzy with glee. She had hoped at least one or two would come by, and perhaps quietly mumble a greeting then take a cookie, eschewing the question—not that she would have enforced it anyway. But that worry was immediately assuaged when Hollyhock offered not one but three little tidbits about herself. One seemed fairly obvious, after all, being the Wind Scion it ought to be expected she’d have an affinity for the breeze, but that didn’t make it any less interesting. Besides, she had a feeling the last fact was the most important, and made a note to triple the chocolate in part of her next batch.

Her Templar joined them, tentative in his decision, but ultimately he made the trade. He seemed tired, like many of their colleagues, but she didn’t think for a second that he was any slower for it. She would have savored the interaction, maybe even tried to broach her first coworker conversation, but she was immediately silenced by the approach of the crown princess and Scion of Light herself, Rosemary Veradis, and it took a great deal of self-control not to drop the container outright.

Instead, she accepted the princess’s fact with a quiet smile, and hoped that Dame Gusev, who was doubtlessly watching, couldn’t see her sweat.

Sir Edmund approached, much to her continued surprise. He offered his own fact, which she found delightfully surprising for someone so outwardly gruff, and she gave him a grateful nod as he took half of his cookie back to Her Holiness Maya, who must have been saving herself for a proper meal.

Another unexpected face followed in Sir Morris, though he was there and gone just as quickly, reward in hand. She would have liked to chat with him, but now probably wasn’t the time, and frankly she probably wasn’t the person. Today was meant to be happy, officially, but she couldn’t blame him for seeing it otherwise. She hoped he found a little joy mingling with the others, at least.

The earthen Scion joined them right after, and while she might have thought him in a dour mood as well, he seemed suddenly alight. His little fact pried a giggle out of her, at the idea of Fyodor watching one of the holy Scions show off a scandalous scar, and while she nodded gratefully at his congratulations, she made no comment about Dominika. It was true, her Scion was perhaps a little bit…anxious, but really, who wouldn’t be? Being blessed as she was, and all of them were only human, really. It seemed perfectly normal to be overwhelmed.

The Scion of shadow came and went like a pleasant breeze, welcoming her without trade, but she didn’t mind. He had a nice laugh and a kind face; perhaps next time she could offer conversation instead.

His Templar lingered, though refused a treat as well. He was an interesting looking fellow, a mage by appearance, visor and all. She hadn’t seen them often growing up, and so she worried her staring might come off as rude, rather than fascinated. As it turned out however, the feeling was mutual. Funnily enough, hardly anyone had asked her about the arm since she’d arrived—which had actually been something of a relief. She dreaded the thought of getting something wrong, and even though she could use the thing as naturally as her own flesh and blood, she would have been hopeless with the mechanics.

Still, she wasn’t about to turn away good company!

“Oh! Not at all!” she said, shifting the box of treats to free her metal arm. With its gilded casing it fit nicely into the Templar’s ensemble, and in the grooves at the wrist and elbow, and in the joints of her fingers, there were faint striations of arcane light. “My dad made it, I’m just sorta the pilot. I couldn’t tell you the schematics or anything, but, I do know it takes a lot of fine mana manipulation. I’ve been doing that forever though, so it kinda just feels like…uhm…an arm! Except it doesn’t sting when I bang my funnybone on something.”

She offered the box back to him again. “That’s my lil’ fact, but I already got to finish off the cookie dough this morning, so you can have mine if you want it! Actually, if you don’t find it…ah, invasive or objectionable either, I haven’t seen those visors around much! What’s it, y’know, like? Can you see through walls? Does it have internet? It definitely looks cool!”

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@Scribe of Thoth