Phoe

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One by one, screens start to flicker. A bold but strangely quiet drum and bass line picks up across The Jungle as the screens lose picture entirely. Each of them, entirely black. Angry red lettering bursts across them all at once, reading "Audio Only" in the inefficient yet beautiful script of the human language.

Mirror closes her eyes and takes a breath. Good. Everything is proceeding as directed. This will be an important test of not only her developing fashion skills, but her planning as well. She opens her eyes as wide as they'll go, sniffs the air as deeply as her nose will let her, strains her ears until they start to hurt, and makes a series of strange facial expressions to move her whiskers through the air. There are countless eyes on that stage. She doesn't want to miss a single one.

"You were expecting me tonight, weren't you? Poor darlings, maybe next time! But I am here, in a much realer sense than you understand. Pull your eyes to the stage, and gaze upon my latest true form!"

Mayze Szerpaws has a quality to her voice that reminds a person of a diamond cutting glass. Sharp, dangerous, you can't help but want to wince. But for some reason you also know that everything that goes into it is beautiful. Mayze chuckles, seemingly in real time, as a few screens burst back to life to display the stage again. Mirror stays where she is in the crowd, and reaches behind her head to undo her hair loops. Her entrance requires four loops, not two. And more feathers. But the suit looked nicer with her hair the way she came. She works quickly, plucking dark blue, bright red, and sharp turquoise feathers out of a pocket and working them into the twists joining her hair loops together, and at the bottoms of each, where she secures them with a jade bead. She draws a knife next, and takes it to her pants. Too hard to slip them off in the choreographed time; easier to just destroy them. She ignores the looks she's starting to get. Her attention is only for the stage.

Up where eyes are supposed to be, a human woman walks shyly onto the stage. She is beautiful with her golden hair and honey eyes, with proportions fit to be a runway model from her toes all the way to the top of her head. But she walks with the confidence of someone who's never seen more than eleven people in a room once in her entire life, and as the lights catch her it's easy to see the splotches of scaled skin and discoloration that marks her rare skin condition. Treatable, of course. Little more than an inconvenience to her health at best. But it makes her feel undesirable and ugly. It has her entire life. And here she is, the tip of the spear for the most elusive, eccentric, and exclusive designer in the known galaxy.

"I took the liberty of peeking ahead at my esteemed colleagues' offerings before tonight's show. Suffice it to say they are the reason I have chosen not to show my face here tonight. Do not mistake me! I am not afraid in the slightest. I cannot be cowed with fabrics, darlings, any more than I can by drones. No. I am unimpressed. This show does not deserve my face."

The model has finished her turn up to the front of the walkway, posing stiffly in a series of clearly pre-established stances. She fights the urge to grab her arms and hide them the whole time. She is dressed in a leotard with a corset sewn in the colors of the sea. Deep, rich blues growing clearer and brighter as they approach her breasts, where the fabric halts in a burst of white foam ornamentation that slips through the middle of her cleavage and wraps around the top of her otherwise bear chest. Her neck is adorned with a sapphire-blue collar made from a single lace ribbon tied into a neat bow behind her. Her hips and thighs are bare, but around her left leg from the knee to halfway point of her calf is tied several bands of thick, shining golden jewelry binding a particularly rough patch of skin in translucent seafoam silk. The fabric is adorned with gold filigreed star charts, that tell the story of the first goddesses of Hybrasil and the founding of the star names. A more crass observer would call it a calendar.

Her right arm is similarly adorned, creating a line from one side of her body to the other that one cannot help but follow no matter where or how she moves. The delicate silver chain wrapped around her waist and the moon charm dangling at the base of it are the center of the line; the eye is pulled first up and then diagonally down across all of her as easily as if Mayze had taken her audience's heads and turned them herself. And it's easy to notice that these silk sleeves are covering the most notable patches of her scales, but it would be a mistake to say she's hidden them. Indeed, the patterns of her star story can only stand out because they have this unique canvas to shine against. The individual ridges and textures of the girl's skin are accounted for in the display of the constellations, displaying history, mythology, and beauty all at once where there had been nothing but a black pit of self esteem. Deep blue cuffs adorn her wrists, with fishnet gloves across both hands. She waves to the crowd once, twice, apparently unsure of her cue. Then she darts away with a squeak, but she can't keep the smile on her face from showing for the cameras before she vanishes.

"Not that I don't have the utmost respect for my fellow designers, of course. And there are some true gems among you, may your starlight never blink out. If you know to let my words wash over you, then good news! I'm probably not talking about you! If you're turning to your companions right and and saying some silly thing about how 'you'd never', then bad news! I probably am~"

The next model's theme is wings. Her pristine white robe is cut entirely with this single shape in mind. It hangs from her in gossamer layers connected by a single length of diamond chains fashioned into the shapes of starbursts and shark fangs draped across her shoulders. Wide swaths of fabric are simply... missing from the dress, exposing her pale albino skin and the deep purple markings painted across it, always in the pattern of falling feathers and wings. Her prominent ribs pin the fabric into place where her tiny chest and flat hips would fail to flatter it, until it gathers at her waist and flares open into a massive trailing gown made entirely of different shades of black, silver, and white feathers gathered off the ground from an aviary where Mirror happens to know a gal.

Open at the front and darkest at the back, where her thin and surely unattractive legs are the stars of the show, and yet... the way those feathers kiss her. The way those wings envelope her. The way they move behind her as she walks and turn her into a swan? She's become some manner of goddess, the kind those star stories were written to warn you about (and, in fact, they were. someone will have to review the footage to notice). Her silvery high heels would be obscene on a girl this tall in any other context, but they are necessary to force her walk into a style that makes her train properly flap. Every step is a ripple of motion that makes her seem about to take flight. The illusion is possible because of her delicate build and divine height. A more traditionally beautiful girl would move in it differently, would seem more like she's hopping rather than preparing to soar across the stars, would hide the painted patterns in her darker skin. This dress was made for her to wear it, and only her. Just like the last one.

"So much time and effort, spent worrying about the how, and the what! So much talent wasted fussing over materials. Materials! Ha! As if you could find a mesh woven well enough to cover for the tiny brains trapped inside those pretty skulls of yours. Good ideas, certainly. But you think that you are pushing the envelope? Ahaha! Idiots. You drape your concepts, your toys across the most bare and basic forms you know. Is this a fashion show or a tech demo? There is nothing wrong with seeking new frontiers, but there is not a single one of you here brave enough to think beyond the basic cuts and ideas you've kept close to you for hundreds of years. What do we wear, and why do we wear it? These are not solved equations, you dolts! There are so very many places we can go, if we can just think about the bodies were are beautifying with the same reverence we use to select our methods of achieving that. Your... cut cookie designs bore me."

The screens have all gone back to normal, except one small one near the bar. The music is fading back into the normal fare for the venue. Mayze is very nearly done making her speech. Mirror hastily unbuttons her suit jacket.

"And, when you are brave enough to put the body ahead of your own sense of cleverness? You can do this."

Mirror breaks into a run and leaps high into the air, tossing the last scraps of her suit across the trail of her flip behind her. She lands center stage, and stands there lit up in the flood of three different spotlights, arms spread, fur patterns exposed for all to see.

She is adorned in flowers. Only in flowers. Great, five-petaled blossoms spread open across her stomach and over her chest with a delicate grip as if they were her lovers. Each petal is so soft and so delicate that the eye can almost see through it without straining, painting her fur in soft purples and pinks, yellows and greens. They follow the specific contours of her body perfectly along the crossing white ribbons that hold them together like vines.

The petals spread across her body with only the barest concessions to modesty. Each of her most distinctive spot markings have been accounted for in the growth. Her breasts, her hips, her legs, and her butt are all displayed prominently, kissed around the edges by flower petals instead of being covered by them, with her ribbon-vines instead slipping just enough to keep her from needing to be thrown out of the show. Sweet perfumes waft from her with each and every swaying step she takes.

This dress has taken into account not just one body, but two. It is a piece meant to enhance her own attraction, but also lift the beauty of the natural world to this house called Fashion. Hybrasillians and especially well read aliens will instantly realize, if they can turn their brains on long enough to think, that she (that Mayze) would have needed to coax these flowers along the guiding ribbons and her models' body over the course of many dedicated months or even years. Each dress made, if you sold it, would be grown to the person wearing it. It would be subject to the whims of the individual flowers chosen for the task. It would be subject to if the person had prominent stripes or spots, if they had freckles on their skin, if they were light or dark or what manners of luster their scales were burnished with, and where that shone the brightest. No two would ever be the same.

She is wearing Home. Delicate petals flutter across her fur, seeming so delicate but never breaking no matter how she moves. Mirror flips across the stage in a cartwheel into backflip to prove the point. She lands on her black sandals and the petals all fold closed into bud, baring whole new sections of her body to the crowd to be admired. She swishes her tail behind her with amusement. Her eyes devour the crowd and its reaction. And then, with the briefest of shudders, the flowers bloom again in a new set of colors. Now they are gold and crimson, fuchsia, orange, and each one draped across a different pattern in her fur. It's not fashion for the feint of heart. Only the confident and pure hearted need apply.

But if you are bold? Then it doesn't matter the shape of your body. No matter your lumps or scars, if you are carrying too much weight or two little, short, tall, or some awkward middle, the flowers can be taught to accommodate you. All they need is time. If you are brave and beautiful inside, Mayze Szerpaws will raise your outside to match. She promises.

Mirror takes a bow, stepping into the gesture with a sweep of her bare leg. The show is ending, but the night is young. Did they see? Did they? Did they understand? The eyes looking at her. The mouths, flapping words into the air. What are they saying?

Breathless Dead

"You really want to know what I think? You should be getting ready to say goodbye. Fry them, shoot them off into space, set them down on some sorry ass rock if that makes you feel better about it. The Tides are dangerous. You shouldn't have let them on board in the first place."

Bella moves with the precision of somebody who knows how many eyes are on her. The Coherent all around her, who always stared like that whenever she needed to work with their kind when her chores included Plover maintenance or other highly technical labor. And the sheep who can't stop shivering, but also won't look away. She does what she's always done with eyes on her: rise to meet their expectations. She holds her back straight and head high. She flicks her tail with supreme confidence, and snaps her fingers imperiously. She gestures at a woman who is very poorly pretending to work, and with one nod and a jab of her finger sends her tumbling down from the light rigging to fetch a fresh chair.

She sits with her legs crossed and her hands folded over one knee. Surprisingly demure, for such a beastly creature. Her fingers are very carefully folded so that nobody can see the tips. Neither threatening or exposing her weaknesses. Her expression is thoughtful as she watches the captain of this worthless rustbucket of a ship. And not just him, but the scene around him. Which around him trip over themselves looking for ways to serve and which simply bend their ears to eavesdrop. Who is truly indifferent and who is uncomfortable. Who is excited. She licks her lips, and closes her eyes. Don't hurt yourself watching her, Dolce.

"...But you did. You asked monsters on board your ship, and you left them free to do whatever they wanted."

It's not clear if she's talking about the Tides, or herself. The way her eyes keep drifting to her hands every time the sheep winces is difficult not to notice. But she's decided to stay, since nobody will dismiss her. And she will not dismiss herself, or run away. There's pride in that ample chest that won't let her abandon whatever sort of duel this is. Memories and thoughts flicker in the light across the surface of her natural eye.

A moment later, several Coherent come scrambling up carrying a table and a pot of tea. They pour two cups before shooting back to an officially sanctioned Respectful Distance, and watch with the kind of tension that suggests they've forgotten how to breathe. Not out of fear. Everything in the air here suggests excitement. Everything except the captain and his guest, locked into their battle for the fate of all the monsters on the Plosious. Bella picks up her cup and lifts it to her lips. She holds it there for a long moment, taking delicate sniffs.

"Sugar, you assholes. And cream."

She sets the cup down and waits for them to sweeten it. Can't quite keep the smile off her face when that first completely smitten girl comes racing out of the green room at the speed of gay and adjusts the cup to Bella's specifications. She picks it back up and takes a long sip. She shrugs.

"...Wine."

"Uh, ma'am? I dunno that we've got anything to your, uh..."

"Did I stutter?"

"No, but I uh, I really don't think you understand how bad--"

Bella rolls her eyes.

"It won't be the worst thing I've ever had, just bring it. Aren't you filming a movie? Not to mention you're alive. I'd like to celebrate that. Your names were all carved into my skin, after all."

"R-right. Ma'am. On it. Uh. Ma'am. Back in a, uh, a minute. Ma'am."

"Praetor."

"Oh shit, right! That whole thing! Right back inaminutebyyyeee!"

Another eye roll, followed by an annoyed huff. Bella takes a long sip of her tea and sets the cup down in front of her with a quiet clink.

"You're right about one thing: this can't continue. The Assistant Secretary can't lead for shit, which is so obvious that even he doesn't want the damn job. You keep asking, I keep telling you. Put someone else in charge and you'll unfuck that system overnight. Give me more time and I can even tell you exactly who it should be. If you want me to fix it just say so. It'd be a lot easier than having to keep talking about it."

She frowns and lifts her cup again, eyes flitting about in search of wine that is apparently not coming. There's a tension on her face that implies she's considering whether or not to say something. But then, why not? She licks her lips again, and drains her cup without spilling anything, or bothering to breathe.

"I heard you. On Sahar, you said my name. Why? You could have had me in chains and in a cell and instead I'm -- fucking finally, put it on the table. Thank you -- I'm here, giving you advice about how to do your job. Why? Why the fuck are you doing this? What the fuck makes you think you can trust me?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Arousal. Nerves. Embarrassment. Excitement. Passion. Joy. Curiosity. Disdain. She smells them all in the air. Posture. Head position. Arm movement. Leg stiffness. Tail gestures. Eye contact. Finger tension. Touch. She watches everything with eyes that dart so fast they seem like a waterfall. Her whiskers brush Valentina's neck. Her tail curls.

She is missing the show. Her head turns. The smells pull her attention back around. Her eyes shift. She sees only present company. The chorus of voices that organize her thoughts have splintered into messy spirals. Begin, begin, begin, begin, begin, begin. Cue, cue, cue, cue, cue, cue. Time, time, time. Heart. Heart.

Pain.

The one day defender, they call her. Because of Solarel. She defended her home for an entire day/night cycle before she fell. She defended her home for just one single day, and was removed from the board forever after. She returned, eventually, a prisoner released into the keeping of her mother and the waiting plate of fish. One day. Maybe one day, she'd actually defend something.

...Language is such a complicated thing, after all. Nobody speaks it properly. Nobody says what they mean. Precision, wasted. Nobody listens. Nobody understands. Nobody listens. Every carefully crafted façade is a pointless and meaningless vanity project doomed to crumble in the face of another perspective, another mind, another unassailable collection of calcified biases. She's spent her entire life trying to have one single conversation. Just one. What can she do? What can she do?

The secret vortex yawns wide. So wide it opens up to the public again. That moan reverberates in her chest until she regurgitates it: half growl and half purr. Her hands make none of their calming, centering gestures. They wander through Valentina's dress, instead. She pulls down and, meeting no resistance, begins to push instead. Face to face. Eye to eye. Mirror does not smile. Smiles are a fabrication. Illegitimate and unnatural gesture; haughty from one angle and judgmental for another. She has other, better uses for her mouth than lying.

She sweeps her date so low to the ground that both their hair pools and mingles on the the floor. She drinks deep of the air through her nose, sweat and pheromones and perfumes and smoke and even light whisps of nanites. She blows it back in Valentina's face through her mouth. Hot. Wet. Needy. And she punctuates the thought with her tongue. That rough and rasping pink glides across the human's soft skin, wetting her cheek. Tracing the line of her jaw again and again and again, teasing her neck and darting lower, lower, lower.

But never kissing. Not on the lips. Where her own meet the skin she ends each touch with a soft, sharp nip of her teeth. She leaves Valentina's mouth open to speak to her with. No more lies and affectations and layers of ritual exulting in the sacred arts of Polite Indifference. Tell her what you think of her. Tell us all. You will not need your words. Her fingers probe and knead, seeking weaknesses, seeking places to reward, seeking solace, seeking just one fleeting moment of connection that matches the sensation of Nine-Tails' body grinding across the Lonely Star's.

The rest of her is not idle, either. This is the talent of someone who trains five hours every day controlling tails guided only by free-flowing power in the air and a single iron will. Her long, soft, and fluffy tail snakes out behind her and wraps itself around Crescent's wrist. Stupid girl, you were given instructions. Can't you even follow them? She squeezes. Pulls. Teases. And drags that hand by the wrist until Crescent's fingers are caught clumsily in the crossing frills of Solarel's beautiful dress.

She pushes that hand down. She pulls it up. She touches without touching, ending where she began with a pirate for a proxy and only the gambits of war to stand in for the words that can't be said. You speak with your hands, as a rule. Then, listen. Listen to the fingers playing at your throat, listen to the bristling fur of a tail that curls and flinches so carefully, not just to guide a Tigress' hand over your jaw, your mouth, your nose, but to pull away at the last possible instant so that no part of her touches any part of you.

The kiss she finally plants on Valentina's lips is... soft. Tiny. Chaste enough to befit the image of a human knight. She lifts her date back into her feet with deliberate slowness that borders on fear. Her breathing is hot. Heavy. Excited. Her suit is perfect. She straightens Valentina's dress until it is, too.

"Eyes. Wait. Soon. Reward. Obey. Misjudge."

It's not the fault of the translators that they can't keep pace with the frantic bursts of chirping pouring from Mirror's mouth. The strangeness of her accent and the sheer speed she's speaking with might leave even Waxing Crescent Moon struggling to follow along. Every thought is a glyph that unfurls like a flower, meaning after deeper meaning trapped inside its petals until the light kisses it open. The density of her vocabulary choices are so impenetrable they might only be appropriate for a priestess' dialog with a High Goddess, or to coax the first trees into growing what would become the homes that kept Hybrasil a paradise even beyond the age of space travel. This is speaking for someone who has given up on being understood. This is someone trying to drink a crystal fire drive through a straw.

Mirror finally manages to pull her eyes to the stage. She stiffens as her shoulders roll back behind her. Her fingers curl and uncurl stiffly into the palms of her hands.

"Dreams." she says, and walks away from everyone.

Whether it's for a moment or forever is not up to her. It's a question of language, and if she spoke it well enough to open the next door. The hallway is always full of more of them. Endless.

[Mirror hits her Feelings 4 explosion and lets the mask fall away: she is lonely and desperate. She takes one string on each of Valentina, Crescent, and Solarel, and gives one to each in exchange]

Breathless Dead

Her ear twists around on her head at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. One wobbling leg does the work plaintive words and a tremulous voice could not, and freezes Bella in mid-step. Her back arches, stiffer than the scaffolding for the set being built around them. Her muscles ripple with the effort of standing in place in a moment when her heart is screaming to leave. She doesn't turn to face him; she lifts her hand to stare at her fingers instead. The memory of the blood makes her shiver.

"Twenty Poisons is Mynx's game," she hisses, "Quit fucking playing it with me, you aren't any good at it."

Bella's hair bounces across her back as she turns her head. It drifts casually across her shoulder and falls in luscious sheets down the other side. In all this lighting the blue-black sheen is startling, almost as much as the hard glint in her golden cat's eye. The half-dried dress of the Temple of Artemis clings and flutters across her body in such a flattering way that even the pieces of it that are torn seem artful instead of shoddy. The fur on her arms and legs seems especially silken compared to other times you might have met her. She looks like she belongs in whatever film is being shot here, in all honesty. The beautiful priestess who delivers a prophecy of doom or deliverance or whatever.

It's not fair, is it? That she could look so good and so whole when you and yours are all broken messes. She's the one who did everything wrong. She's the one who sold her soul for power. She's the one who came a hair's breadth away from killing half the crew, yourself included. So why does it look like she's being rewarded? And why has she so easily slipped inside the inner workings of this ship when it's bent over backwards to deny you?

"I'll tell you what I told him, while he was begging me to save his wriggling tentacled ass: I have never, and will never betray the Empire. If Mother couldn't drag me with her, you have no chance. But the Imperial Princess is on this ship and I'm still Her Majesty's Praetor no matter what anybody says, until the day she tears the title off my body with her own hands. So as long as I'm on this ship I'm damn well going to make sure it functions like it's fucking supposed to. We are not friends. And I'm not gonna sit here and guess what you're after, so spit it out or get the fuck out of my way."

...That was too far. She knows it. Bella tenses, and you can see the moment where she comes a twitch or two away from digging her claws into her own skin before she stops herself with a frankly huge and heroic effort. She sighs, and finally spins around. The conversation will continue. When she speaks again, her voice is low and cautious. It costs her a lot to be like this right now. And you're an attentive sort: from the way she keeps almost reaching for her back it's obvious something about it is bothering her a lot. But she doesn't dare say or do anything about it. Not when she looks the way she does, and you look like... well, you.

"You're in this mess because you didn't push. Do you get that? You knew you were being jerked around in that asshole's letterhead and you never hunted him down or sent anyone to speak with any of his other nodes, and now you're in a place where your enemy's giving you the status report that he wouldn't. And here you are, trusting me. Asking me for help. Why? What are you hoping I'll do? Just tell me what the fuck you want, already. I can't stand this."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

A tilt of her head. Three flicks of her ears, a single swish of her tail. Mirror stretches her back and lifts her arms as slow and languidly as her body is capable of. She makes a show of lazy blinking, too. There is no need to walk away and find a step, tree, or couch to lounge on. She is already the taller cat. She frowns, which in her language means she's pleased or intrigued by some puzzle, but of everybody around her only Solarel is likely to know how to read her.

She's wearing several perfumes tonight, and while they don't completely obliterate the mood pheromones Hybrasilians give off they do make watching her a confusing mess. Her posture is a mix of curiosity, comfort, and aggression, and her scent is... excitement? Agitation? She is either very mad or very turned on, or maybe both? Or maybe she's just wearing lily-scent even though it's toxic. Which is its own kind of riddle. She takes a step forward, and doesn't seem the least bit surprised to see Waxing Crescent Moon take a similar step back.

"Oh? Is that right? An offer, is it? How wonderful. I have only the deepest respect for enterprising kittens. Truly, I do. Though perhaps? If you don't mind a word of advice from an outsider, that is. Perhaps... do not grant The Varangian a contest of dominance if you're not prepared to fight above your normal level. She thinks about fighting more than you do. If you do what feels intuitive, she's already read you. That's free advice, by the way. It's difficult in the extreme to make profitable... offers from a losing position. Unless that was your plan? Aha. Well then I apologize."

Mirror tilts her head in the other direction. Her liquid eyes fall on the most beautiful doll she's ever seen. The scale painting is something new. She's not seen this before. It reminds her of girls dyeing their fur to create expressions beyond the natural representations made possible by their original patterns. But like most things from the Followers of Zaldar, this idea is new. It's different. There's a grace and even femininity to it that she hadn't thought to apply to the greatest pilot in the known universe. The thought surprises her. Why? Why hadn't she seen this dress, this pattern, this internalization of sacred Consortium arts coming.

Because Solarel hadn't worn them before. Hadn't really shown an interest in fashion. Hadn't shown herself to be the type to think about it beyond the mood of the hour. But this? This was a deliberate choice. This was a great dolt taking even greater care to think through every aspect of her appearance for a night, and then waiting for random passers-by in a crowded bar to approach her. To see what may? No. Look again. The crossing of the dress, the cream color. The importance of it. Machine stitched, from the look of things. But stitched. She fought like she cared more about what happened to her outfit than to her. That's what made Crescent's victory possible to engineer in the first place.

What did that mean? Looking again, this doll was dressed for purpose. She'd turned herself into one of those Princesses, the kind that hid behind the gambits of her guards and waited for a brave Prince to sweep her off her feet... or send her tumbling into depravity. Look again, look again. Who does she compliment? Who had she been thinking of, all this time? Mirror plucks at the fabric of her suit. Her tail lifts high behind her, and cracks down like a whip.

"...You asked me a question. Yes, you can assist me. Yes, I'll tell you how. Do you see this pretty doll? Look what you've done to her; she begs with her eyes to be posed. As it happens, I am working tonight. I am acting as a model for the final line of fashions being debuted tonight. When my turn comes up, judging by your strike, her legs should just be beginning to regain their function. Unless she does something stupid, but let's trust her judgment. When I take the stage, she will need someone to point her in the right direction. She will need strong, skilled hands to lift her head and point it where it belongs. Make sure she watches. Make sure she sees everything. And then, when that is done? Please. Make your offer. Enjoy your, mmmmmm, snack. Show this lovely woman your best night, with Whispered Promise's blessing."

Mirror brushes the sleeves of her jacket smooth with the same deliberateness and lack of haste she's been moving with since she stumbled across this farce. Every wrinkle carefully pressed flat. She blinks one last time, and turns to take Valentina by the hand again. She can't resist leaning in for a kiss, this time on the neck. A kiss of lips, a kiss of fangs.

"I am sorry for the interruption," she says with a slick smile, "Life of a traveler, you know. A... in your language, a Knight? I believe? Work follows me everywhere. Come along, if you wouldn't mind. You said these current lines were your favorite, didn't you? We shouldn't miss this. Personally I would love to see you in that suit there almost as much as I enjoy your dress tonight. Are you more for those boots, or do the cuffs agree with you better?"

Her ear bends back as she walks, attentive to her date's answers. But her eyes are locked entirely onto the stage. Linterna Brilliante. The offering makes her scowl. It's not a question of craftsmanship or artistry, not at all. Even the light shows feel appropriately playful, and the silent nature of the thing has a beauty in its own right. It's all the flashes of war stripped of their horrors and turned solely to the art of beautification, and encouragement for the brave or... perhaps the rich among them to make better versions of themselves, if they could simply reach out and take hold of these dreams.

Except. It echoes the work of the amateur lines so strongly that it feels pre-planned. A loose thread pulled tight and held low to trip the first poor fool that came rushing out. Then the second. Then the third. She will not take back her words about the importance of giving the new minds of the field a chance to stand on the same stage. But to take their ideas and display them with the benefit of a more practiced hand and larger store of materials? This is what they call bullying. It would take a miracle for these poor artists to feel the rising tides, now. Someone would have to have been so starstruck by the promise of those drones, or the aesthetic potential of neural mesh (which was, in fact, worth considering!) that they dumped an absurd amount of money on the prototypes before waiting till the end of the night to see the finished product.

She'd like to meet the kind of idiot who'd do that sort of thing. Maybe to kiss? Maybe to punch? Maybe, both. In any case it's an impossibility. The list of people in attendance is elite among the elite. You have to walk the length of an entire research station back to find the throngs filled with hearts that much faster than the minds they pump blood for, and those poor dears lack the voice, the reach, or the resources to make anything happen about it.

She puts it out of her mind. Her fingers sneak up Valentina's arm, soft and teasing brush strokes. They tickle, they excite, they incite a shiver. And if her date should lose her balance? She'll be there to catch her. So swiftly and strongly only the pair of them will even know a stumble happened in the first place. A private moment in the middle of the vortex.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Too much. There's too much happening all at once. Pay attention to the fabric being used on stage. Unusual material, very fine stitching. The attention to detail speaks to a mindset completely separate from the attitude displayed by Prime Couture. The embroidery, the glorification of culture and mythology, even the cut of the robe is such that the thick, covering garment manages to glorify the body underneath it more than it obfuscates it, somehow. She'll need to buy several pieces from this line, wear them around for a while. She doesn't understand it. She doesn't

What is Valentina doing what is she doing what is she doing what is she doing how many different ways does one person need to turn conversation into ritual was the whole Consortium like this it's exhausting it's obnoxious just give in already just push her away already just let this stop being work just let her rest just let her have her night just let her give you yours just, just, just, just, just

Gold and pink, the coral colors of the dragon. Silver the foam washing over the tides they rest under. The sash tied tight around the waist gives the model the kind of sharp silhouette that draws attention to the curves of her body as much or more as nudity could manage. It is possible through the mind's eye to see the blemishes on her skin, hiding under the breath of the dragon. It is alluring to imagine where her body is soft and where it is strong. It makes the palms itch with want to touch the shimmering fabric and cinch it tighter around her and feel her bones and her muscles and the rustling, stimulating material all at once. Every step another shift, every shift a mesmerizing shimmer. There's more here than

Anime. Solarel. What does a brute need to train in heart magic for, anyway? Isn't the obnoxious power of her God more than enough to make her invincible? As if every advantage in the world wasn't enough already, now she needs to take the greatest secrets of human martial arts into herself?

[Stars Blotting Out the Moon], that dress fits her well. She fights like she's worried about it breaking. It fights like it wants her to shine. She could be a Priestess. But she would look better in a swimsuit, undoubtedly. And even better in nothing at

"Annoying," she says, with unintended venom and a voice loud enough for the entire bar, "Distraction. Distasteful. Annoying."

Mirror blinks. Her eyes flicker all across the (coral) room and the many faces that are now (coral, coral) watching her. She licks her own wrist and (coral) rubs the cool fur across her (coral, resting under waves) forehead before she (coral, coral, coral) clears her throat and sticks her hands in her pockets. It's possible (coral, coral) to hide the curling of her fingers from the safety of the suit. No one can see her center herself. No one can figure out how off balance she is. No one will realize how much is happening. How too much is happening.

Nobody except the one who should be wearing coral. Sink her teeth into those scales. Grind her fangs into those muscles. Her teeth are sharper, her technique is better than some Tigress'. Doing it wrong you moron, weren't you watching her hand? She called out the name of her Heart Technique! Idiot girl, she handed you every advantage, are you too hopped on on the smell of that cream to see the opening? Disgrace disgrace disgrace, you're an embarrassment to cat kind! Step back and let a professional handle it!

She breathes in slowly through her nose. Holds it, one, two (coral, coral, coral), three. Lets it out in sharp puffs, two, three. One hand comes free from her pocket and wraps itself possessively around Valentina. She pulls the other woman close, as close as she's allowed to without having to use force. Threading the needle, finer than embroidery. Strength without force. Strength applied with consent. Let Ms. de Alcard keep her dignity, if it's that important to her. She'll take it later, in privacy and darkness. Her breath feels hotter in her chest when she thinks about it.

"I don't appreciate these kinds of displays," she says with the same loud voice she'd snapped out before, though every word feels careful now. Thoughts pushed through mesh. Filter them till they're 'normal', "Don't you think so, Milady? If these are the forms she chooses for courtship, she should choose her battlegrounds better. She's making a mockery of these sacred arts. I'm sorry you have to watch this, I would much rather be paying attention to the walkway. I didn't think I'd enjoy it, but I--

"What are you doing, you idiot?! The base of the neck! Are you really going to let her beat you without a fight!?!"

In her pocket, Mirror's knuckles squeeze together. That should be her. But she has so many other things to do tonight already. Her tail is bushed out to maximum floof, but if she notices it she doesn't show any sign. Too much. There's too much. Coral, coral. Everything is coral. Something please, break the pattern. Someone please, understand her.

Breathless Dead

She doesn't have it in her to laugh this time. It's the same joke on repeat out here, too soon to be funny again. She doesn't have it in her to keep shouting, either. Not to a half broken, twitching sheep that half looks like he's about to fling himself sobbing onto the floor, where he'll need someone to pick him up again after. Bella's shoulders roll. Her muscles twitch all along her arms. Her anger, her irritation, her scorn, her amusement, and her fear: all of them have nowhere to go. No correct expression, so they push out of her all at once in a single disbelieving huff. Not half a chuckle, all of it breath. That's all she's left with.

Bella shakes her head. Her smile is wry and toothy.

"...I was such an idiot back then," she sighs, "If I'd had any sense in me at all I would have let you dipshits capture me the first time I laid eyes on you. I would have had the Princess back on Tellus before Her Majesty's bathwater even cooled."

There's tension in that thought. Desire, even. Bella's face turns hard, and she covers her face with one hand and its outstretched, squeezing fingers. From in between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers, the baleful red glow of the Auspex fixes its unblinking gaze on Dolce. Cold and ruthless. She watches him watch it for several seconds until the good Captain summons up the power and the courage to look directly at it. She blinks a moment later, and lets the moment drop with a casual toss of her hair.

"It's really you? They put you in ch-- no, of course they did. Who else is there? Fine then if you're in charge then use your f-- just actually think about it for ten seconds, would you? You put the manifestation of a leviathan's terror after Odoacer put a damn ship through its brain in charge of Zeus knows what and then... what? Took it at its word? Let it be, as long as it kept the crabs pointed basically where you wanted them?"

Bella's teeth are grinding. She reaches up and scratches at her face with enough force that the only reason she doesn't tear her face half open is that the fingers she's using have had their claws torn out. She quickly realizes what the gesture is showing and folds her fingers into her palms faster than blinking. She folds her arms across her chest and tries to lean on her back leg, but apparently that's still too exposed because she puts her hands behind her back entirely a moment later, only to swing them free again and dip into what can only be described as history's rudest curtsey.

"Gods, why did it have to be you? I need this like I need another round of 'Beautification' procedures. But fine. Since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you exactly what's going on. Your so-called Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt has built himself a tiny empire of paranoia and death. He needs more nodes to handle the functions he's lacking, so of course he's spawned them. But they're all of them a threat in his eyes, so he pushes them about through his waves of bureaucracy. He pits them against one another, coaxes the fresh ones into killing the older ones, and shuffles them about through an endless chain of pointless bullshit, the only real point of which is to keep him safe and in power. Which of course he's done. What the fuck else would he do? This took me ten minutes of looking to find out. Fuck, first thing he did was beg me to be in charge. It's obvious to anyone with eyes the Tides as they are miserable and don't trust the systems around here, and apparently I come highly recommended. Or maybe that's just because I'm the first one to go visit their brine soaked hellhole.

"...Look, I don't want to turn this into a whole thing. Like I said, I don't want to be here and I know you don't want me anyway. I've given you your report, so let me out of here and we'll both be happier. Right? Right."

Breathless Dead

Finally. This is much closer to how a ship should sound.

The waves of thousands of slow breathes washes over the corridor and wipes away the sloshing of Bella's feet as she picks her way back out of the shallows. Soon, her bare soles touch dry flooring again and even as the meditation of the Tides recedes behind her there is a deep and abiding sense of calm in place of the frantic, tapping echoes of her footsteps that hounded her all the way down here in the first place.

She pauses to take in the echoes. Her hands clench into fists faster than she can pry them apart. She scratches at her scars violently enough to tear holes in the back of her dress. Her tail flicks water every which way as it lashes about like a whip. Teeth bared for the world. She can feel her body growing hotter as the urge to murder something builds inside of her. This at least has the effect of drying her dress out, not that she especially notices or cares. She drags her claws along the edge of a wall, leaving the deep gouges that have so often marked her terrible moods out here in space. She stares at them for a long time. The distant sounds of the Tides' deep breathing still follow her. Bella snarls.

Her steps fall faster now. She stomps on the floor without consideration for who might hear her, all thoughts of avoiding people forgotten for the moment. Fuck them. It's not even funny anymore. If this is how this ship is run, then everybody on it deserves what's going to happen. Bastards. Fucking bastards. She's sprinting now. Hundreds of empty corridors in varying states of disrepair watch her pass by, and offer nothing but echoes and groans to stop her.

Bella's right ear twitches. She can hear shouting. And underneath that... yes, she's certain of it. She'd know the flutter of film being fed through a camera anywhere. People. Crew, fucking about while the ship collapsed around them. Or maybe... nngh. She'd find her answers soon enough.

"Who!"

She shouts at the top of her lungs as she bursts onto the set of what looks suspiciously like a Prion Paula movie. She pays it no mind. It's only the basic tact of a lifelong maid that keeps her from kicking over every set piece and bit of equipment as she stomps through the room with her tail lashing in permanent attack threat.

"The fuck!"

Her golden, bloodshot eye roams over a bunch of Coherent. Some in costume, some too much themselves to ever be able to tell. She watches to see which of them flinch, but all of them do. They part like an honor guard revealing a princess to a ball, a wall of bodies like an inverted phalanx. Revealing openly what they should be protecting. Her iris consumes her entire eye when she sees him, and shrinks to a furious slit a moment after. The sheep. The one from the Eater of Worlds, the party on Salib, and the battle. The one who said her name.

"...You." Her original booming accusation falls discarded at her feet. She hisses instead. Her fingers curl, and only her uncovered, scarred fingers keep her from seeming (entirely) like she's fully reverted to being XIII, come to finish the kill, "Tell me who's running this gods forsaken rust bucket. I thought it was the Princess, but no. So tell me. Who let the Tides on this ship? Which idiot thought it would be a good idea to shove them in a dark corner and let them torture themselves? Tell me who I have to--"

She squeezes her wrist and pushes the thought down into a frustrated groan.

"Tell me, and I'll be out of your hair. I don't want to sit here staring at you any more than you do me, believe me."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There's more to unpack in these responses than can be managed in a single night. Such a fascinating mind. Such an interesting creature. Such an unusual culture.

Call and response, the ritual dance of society. Greetings, farewells, and various social and politeness markers were a commonality among every known spacefaring species (and as an aside, it was far preferable to classify lifeforms by their ability and/or willingness to travel the stars, much more so than labeling them as "advanced" or not. Depending how you tilted your head, you might wind up lifting up one species but find another was sinking beneath the horizon in response. Language, culture, self awareness, dreams... these never turned out to be unique. Even the nomenclature 'multiplanet species' fell short of useful. But intentionally crossing and linking the gateways? That was useful distinction), but Valentina clearly had them drilled into her at a level that would be unthinkable living on a Hybrasil research station. Even mainland religious ceremonies tended to fall short of this level of calcification.

She knows it's unasked for. Discouraged, in fact. Mirror has been putting down hints with increasing levels of aggression all night, and Valentina has responded by imbibing larger amounts of liquor and displaying needy, openly vulnerable body language. But even at these levels of inebriation and desperation, all attempts at small talk are filtered through the ritual process. What sort of significance must it have inside the Consortium? It's almost as if TCers weren't capable of reading the extra languages of Posture, Pheromones, and Terrain Control. Poor things. Quite the difficulty to overcome on a societal level. No wonder Valentina was so locked into her stock responses that she could be visibly seen thinking across them despite three glasses of quite boozy bubbly and an impending trip to the bar.

And then the content of her answers! Proximity to the center, the tens of billions, each milling about in their 'how do you do's and 'oh, but you wouldn't be interested in's as they march step by step down their infinite steel pathways shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, wearing their restrictive and stuffy clothing. Individuality, expressed through conformity. Social creatures in the extreme, with only limited ability to communicate. Total chaos. Such beautiful, fascinating chaos. It was no wonder so many clever ideas originated from their space.

And yet, how sad. How typically... human. To be firsts to a new frontier and only see the way it differs from their point of origin. To speak in terms of the dimness of the light and the hue; specifically how these things made it somehow unpleasant to be there. How much of the talk was about resources? What could be taken from this planet, what was its manufacture? She never said a word about fish that swam in its waters, the birds that glided on the breeze. If these things thrived or ate metals to survive or who could say what else? No mention of the flowers, and which were for warding and which were for eating and which were for display. Only metallurgy. What it meant to the economy, to the push and pull of that grand societal tide, the products it created. Beautiful pride, nevertheless discarded after only a single setback to a superior opponent.

Tilt head upward, allow eyes to half-shut. Show trust, allow closeness. Skin contact at the head, hold. Touch her back. Long strokes, adjust pressure. She makes the first move. Take the second. Hand on hip, squeeze. Hand on elbow, guide. She'll think she's leading. Ideal. She'll think you're reciprocating. Correct.

Take her hand behind your head, push her fingers into hair. Part lips, wait. Breathe. Two intervals. One. Lean in, connect. Ah, a spark. Hold close, hold steady. Do not tense. Do not flinch. Tail about her waist, hold her here until the flavor of her lips becomes sense memory.

Her lips are soft. Her breasts are soft. Her body is warm. Mirror kisses with the chaste softness of a maiden surrendering to a conquering knight for the first time in her life, even as her body nudges and manipulates her date's to push her where she wants, to be held the way she wants, to feel contact the way she wants. And what she wants is not chaste at all. What she wants is a tangle of legs, want she wants is a repeat of the end of their duel in the arena. She wants to feel it this time. What she wants is to ruin that pretty dress, to expose what's underneath so she can prove her fingers and her tongue and her technique and her entire body are talented enough to conquer Valentina de Alcard completely. This is the meaning of [Whispered Promise[. To make craft of this woman to send home to Hybrasil Prime. They'll make weapons out of her sighs. They'll make armor out of her screams. They'll weave art from the way. She'll.

Ah. But up there. What fascinating designs. Sublime use of neural mesh, so clever and creative to hire someone to go out and experience the universe like this. So thorough to canvas such a wide swatch of the known galaxy. These are dresses that will mean something slightly different on every body that wears them, both to the wearer and to the observer. The shape of each body changes the meaning of the landscapes, changes towering mountains to subtle hills, makes the forest rigid and foreboding or the prairie into the most inviting sun-dappled napping place. This could be home. This could be a horizon you'll never cross yourself. This could be nostalgia so strong it hurts, or the infinite promise of a tomorrow that's just around the corner.

Impressive. Truly. But so very wrapped up in the same chains that bound Valentina's tongue even more thoroughly than Mirror's could. This... couture was a series of masterpieces, but its supposed theme was the expanding of boundaries and possibilities. How were they supposed to manage that with their own growth so deeply stifled? Mayze's newest lesson was necessary after all. A knot in Mirror's back unclenches, and it has nothing to do with the curious fingers currently kneading it. She'd written the correct speech after all.

Mirror pulls apart from Valentina at long last, still on the precipice between the conqueror and the prize so very richly one. Her breathing is deep, hot, and as excited as she can push herself to show. She arches her back to push her chest out for display, and at the same time takes Valentina's hands in both of hers to guide them down to where she cannot be touched. Not here, and not yet.

"Is this what you hoped for? she asks, without clarifying what she means.

[rolling Entice, which is an 8]

Breathless Dead

"Mmm." says Bella, because that is the noise that she can make without the croak of fear slipping into her voice.

Her body feels slow. Every muscle in her back, shoulder, and arms is clenched tight enough that basic movements seem to cost her twice the time and triple the effort that they should. Even breathing is a conscious decision she has to make, and remember. Her ears bend painfully in search of new sounds in the waves, and her tail crashes against the surface of the pools with a shock that's at once painfully loud and pathetically soft.

The salt in the air is saturating into her skin. Every little shift of her rigid, overamped body builds fresh waves of itching and discomfort that beg her to leave, or at least scratch until the blood let out and coated her with something like relief. She looks down at her claws and the mutilated stumps where her most useful fingers end for what feels like the millionth time. They ache to be whole again. Even the cool, metallic kiss of a good set of talons would be a blessing. Her neck twitches with all the effort of standing there, and pushes a headache up through the back of her brain.

She sighs.

"No, I suppose you're right. That's no way to live at all."

The riddle unfolds inside her mind with the pressure of a physical thing. It might just be the headache, but it feels more like a parasite. Clever phrases, grand speeches, ideas that point ten thousand toward the designs of a single mind. She saw it on the Yakanov and in the Armada. It was all over the Endless Azure Skies, even if half of it was reduced to ghosts and phantoms. This was a puzzle for someone like Beautiful. It's too much for Bella. All she'd wanted was to get Redana and go home. She'd never intended to change the Anemoi, she just needed the ship to fucking work in the first place if it was going to keep chasing. Whatever the Lanterns thought of it, that wasn't her fault!

She's not breathing again. She pulls an extra long sniff of briny air through her nose and holds it for another long moment before letting it all back out through her mouth in a fresh sigh. She shrugs, and shakes her head. She watches Eyes of Coral for a long time without saying anything, clever or stupid or otherwise. If this place was Tellus, then these... people felt especially like temple assassins. The thought makes her feel heavy; she sits down.

"Let me show you something. This was a lesson Apollo taught me himself."

Bella sinks into the water. It's warm and feels somehow slimy on her fur, but she ignores the sensation. Every inch of her dress that drinks in the waves clings unpleasantly to her skin and turns from pure white to useless translucence, but she pays it no mind. The brine and silt turn what had been a discomfort on her back to actual agony after only a few moments, but she keeps her posture and pays the feeling no more mind than a single frustrated snort. She straightens out her back as she crosses her legs underneath her and lays her arms palms up on the bed made by her knees. She tilts her head so that her face stays above even the largest surges of the tide pools, and closes her eyes.

"I'm not one of Apollo's chosen, I don't know why this happened. I don't worship Poseidon either, so I don't know why I'm here for that matter. Zeus ignores me, I haven't seen a single sign or token from Hera in the longest time. I was made to be a body for Artemis to inhabit, if she ever needs to crush a planet. But I've never spoken to her. I don't even know how."

She floats there, breathing steadily between her thoughts, letting her body be pushed and pulled gently back and forth along with her hair and clothing by the motion of the water. Her voice is calm and placid, almost bored. In her mind, she traces a pattern of golden light through a belt of rocky asteroids, crossing between two stars.

"I am alone. Everything I knew, or thought I did is gone now. I had a chance to get it all back, but I lost that too. In fact, I threw it away like a fucking moron, so don't go expecting anything from me. But I have this, and not even the gods can take it away. I can sit here like this, and focus my mind on the sounds I'm hearing in the room, or the feeling of the clothes on my skin, or a smell, or anything I fucking want, and the entire rest of the universe will fall away from me. I can be alone, with nothing at all to hold me down."

She stands up abruptly with a splash and a crack of her neck, and any sense of mystic wisdom or divine insight disappears in a moment. She's nothing but a broken Servitor again, from some nameless race she doesn't even know, and soaked to the bone at that. She shrugs.

"Anyway it helps. Maybe give it a try. Actually, that's an order. Work on this until it means something to you, however the fuck that has to work. When I come back you can tell me how it felt, or what you saw. Whatever. But if none of you can manage this, you're a waste of my time."

Bella flicks her tail across the water as she tosses her hair behind her with a wet slap. The further away she walks, the worse she feels. The water stops reaching her ankles before she notices she can walk normally again. She briefly contemplates the empty, hollow corridor but quickly shakes her head. Not here. The smell will drive her crazy. And if she doesn't find something for her back she'll rip her own spine out soon. No choice, she'll have to risk it.

So she slinks through the shadows of the Plousios, wishing it were as dark and quiet as she knows a ship can be. Should be. Dripping and cold and with her whole body on display, as if she were taking some ritual test of purity for Artemis. Her teeth flash every time she opens her mouth, as she looks for a new place to hide.