Phoe

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Good, good. Good. It would be disappointing and difficult for me if you did not feel outmatched in at least one way. Remember your Shantri. Wish for her. And then! Sing your song with me! I shall become your harp, if your hands are skilled enough!"

All out warfare. That is what this situation calls for. An absolute blizzard of defensive techniques. Mirror fights strictly through the medium of counterattacks, only ever opening herself up in the space allowed by Kiarala's testing, and never committing to the death blow hard enough to expose her in exchange in the aftermath.

Tails One and Two, maintain claw technique. Her swipes are precise and lighter than falling feathers. They scrape paint and carve secret runes and leave behind the sensation of clothing being slowly cut apart in provocative patterns. Here you go, a Mayze Szerpaws original. Tail 3 replaces her trident and offers something to physically parry the spear with that also helpfully shifts to a floating position above the shoulder whenever a counterattack opportunity presents itself. She never swings - that would be a punishable commitment of resources.

Tails Four, Five, and Six are on laser duty. Their shots are heavier, normally, than the Ginger Tiger's, but today the intensity is dialed down. When they fire, it is directly at beams that Kiarala shoots first and only with enough power to cancel them out. In itself this is a very difficult technical display, and it's own fun sort of minigame. The calculations are complex enough and the actions so fast that it purges old patterns from her mind. Soothing. A cold wind across her face that makes meditation tolerable.

Peace.

Hm. Amusing thought. All actions contain packets of information inside of them. Kiriala's assertion. Not incorrect, either. A puzzle box unfolds as you solve it, and even in revealing the depths of its complexity it cannot help but speak to you of its construction. Riddles that should be increasing in complexity instead become simpler purely off the back of the overall possibility space shrinking as it opens. A cloud chasing reeds and the river runs dry, as the saying goes. An ancient paradox of sorts, taken from old water plants that spread their seeds in response to the dry season. A sudden flurry of movement, vastly increasing complexity, and in its wake nowhere to hide. In other words, strange seemings make everything clearer.

And yet. Complexity increases, and basic answers become more difficult to deliver confidently. Those same seeds inevitably go to ground, and come the rainy season there is no exact pattern even today capable of accurately predicting the new growing patterns. Which will take root, which will sprout, which among them will grow too quickly and be eaten by the local birds and early fish returning to the riverbed themselves to spawn. Which patches will gather nourishment to grow the thickest and which shall avoid the stinging bites of insects and plague. Indeed, the supposed simplicity of the reveal disguised a nightmare of new challenges to solve, and assumed wisdom would need to alter from year to year lest habit make a meal out of efficient huntresses.

"Curiosity. We have spoken very little to one another, but we have each been listening intently. Yes? You would agree? Three times as of now, I have mentioned my intentions to fight you as the Ultimate Warrior. Do you know to whom that refers?"

Tail Five neutralize shot at 'three o'clock' angle. Tail three parry, off balance spear, rushing jab clips shoulder at base of neck. Quick leap, take to air, kick off of back. Thruster fire, oh-point-seven-five seconds. Spin, low stance. Defense, defense, defense. Damage only possible via avoidance. Tail Six rise to threat horizon, Tail Four return to point defense. Resume pseudo-trident stance. Breathe.

It's a fifty-fifty chance, or near enough. As likely as wondering what side a wafer might land on if tossed toward the sun. Solarel's reputation as a one-woman blade that cut the Net of Hybrasil into humiliating bits is buried deep enough in their culture's psyche that little kittens today have started telling ghost stories about her to each other. But the official position of Hybrasil is that the war ultimately ended in feline victory, and some even claim she only penetrated so deeply as part of a clever trap on the behalf of high command.

She is a lurking terror whose name is mud. Not so different from the Whispered Promise who loves her, really. But knowing who it refers to and what it actually means are entirely different challenges, by a full order of magnitude. The scattered reeds are growing again, and soon the rains will flood the valley. What shall our hunting grounds look like, O Beloved of Maeahu?

Have figured who her heart is wishing for, like yours is for your Shantri? And do you understand the nature of the deadliest blade that fearsome warrior ever swung?

Has it occurred to you, darling Kiriala, that she might lie?

(Roll with Wit is an 11)

Breathless Dead

Mosaic, at least, was born to shop. Or well. No she wasn't. The concept of the gold held very little sway inside her head except that it was pretty, and the call of coin would have been hollow if not for the fact that she was certain she was in the one place where a pair of coins was necessary to move forward. But just the two, for each of them. All the rest was pointless, confusing, and she'd be happy enough in any of these clothes if they got her what she wanted. Which was movement. Forward please, Vesper. She is missing her Beloved, do you not understand?

Modeling. That's the thing she's actually the best at. Vesper only confirms it with every new selection, every fresh experiment. The pile that's 'for' her grows so disproportionately large that it's starting to make her tail bush in irritation.

She is born to wear high gowns with trails that drag the ground behind her. She is born for short and swishy pleated skirts with saucy button up blouses that don't entirely cover her prodigious assets with anything approaching a Duchess' level (she assumes) of decorum. She is born for sleek and slitted dresses, for long coats and short ones, for frills and for lace and on, and on, and on.

In the end it is the look her other sister is giving her: one part high effort smile to one part bravely hidden whine to one part not-at-all hidden glare that convinces her to speak up. Enough. Rather than trusting to Vesper's expertise, Mosaic adds her own opinions to the mix to best help sort the selections fairly. The idea of the exercise itself being folly does not occur to her. Her family is four sisters, including herself. The past is not so clear as the city skyline is just now, but just to look and hear and smell and touch the three of them is enough to know that they all wore the cost of many miles and atrocities upon their shoulders.

And knowing that, wasn't that worth at least making sure everybody looked their best on the other side of this journey? For... however long that might take? One outfit apiece. They agree on this much. But given that, it has to be the best in all of creation. That's how they'll know each other, if every other signal should fail them. No group anywhere could be so beautiful.

But what does Mosaic know of fashions? Her beauty is haphazard. Her body rejects nothing out of hand. The slim cuts and the heavy ones. The revealing masterpieces and the concealing comfort clothes. Somehow it all looks great. Somehow it all feels nice. But even so, it's not like she's come into this battle unarmed. There are some freebies. She cuts several cocktail dresses because of how fantastic they would look on her clear-voiced sister, and cuts a robe, a fluttering sleeved shirt, and a massive coat with almost as many buttons as pockets because the idea of seeing Vesper in them instead puts a smile on her lips. She shrugs off the shutter shades, somewhat at random.

And from there she's out of tools. And there are still so many outfits to model. Button mashing is the last and best tool of the desperate, and though she doesn't know it by that name Mosaic employs the strategy with gusto. That shows too much leg, away with it. That doesn't show enough leg, rejected. That doesn't show too much leg, get it gone. Shut up, actually? Who cares if she's making sense, she's making decisions, ok? Like either of you two know anything about that!

Bit by bit, the possibilities dwindle. Without any conscious hand guiding her decisions, a pattern forms in the shape of a dream. Or an obligation, maybe. Something ephemeral and impossible that nevertheless touches her and pulls her toward a single thought just as inevitably as she found her name. And when everything else is gone, Mosaic is left with suits.

The cuts come further. Faster. More certain. Wrong color, sister. Too loose a fit. It needs to fit more of a... no, here. Look at this.

From endless possibility shines a single light and washes out every other color, and every shadow along with it. The jacket only has a sleeve on the left arm, melting somehow as it crosses her chest to a two-button vest that leaves plenty of the tight fitting, white button up shirt and the delicate black tie she pulls taut around her neck. High waisted slacks hug her hips like a lover might, covering the socks (blue-black, like her hair) except where the points of her shiny, tall heeled shoes let them poke through at the tops of her feet. At her back, the suit jacket unfurls like a cloak that brushes near the ground by her tail, principally on her right side where her front clothes are shortest. And where the fabric flutters open, all that midnight black and moonlit white is obliterated by a bold streak of crimson coating the inside of her clothes.

This is the barter by which she will mint her coins, she's sure of it. This is how she's meant to look. This thing, which is many things stitched together by some clever or desperate hand, is beautiful in a way that nothing else in this entire city could possibly be. All that it requires is a splash of gold chains here, a bell charm there, a pendant necklace in glittering gems so that she shines as bright as a sun over a field of desperate green grasses. A beacon. That's what he sister calls her.

Mosaic throws her arms around them both, and squeezes her eyes shut so that the tears can't poke through and ruin this moment. Whatever lead her here, however difficult the path has been... none of it has been a mistake. And what a blessing it is that these girls should be allowed to walk forward together.

"Now come on, you idiots. We spent all this time on me and there's still hardly anything properly picked out for the rest of you. I'm not the only one who should be exploring, here."

Breathless Dead

She has blue hair? Does she? In all this walking she's never really noticed. When would she have looked? All the mirrors here have been dusty or distorted or outright shattered, for whatever reason. All the rivers have been too dangerous to gaze into, if not for themselves then because stopping and staring at a river is not walking forward. And if she knows anything at all, it's that she has to keep going.

But blue hair. Blue. Such a different color from her fur. She's spent so long looking at what's in front of her that she'd forgotten things could be behind her. The girl reaches over her shoulder, and finds her hair is more than long enough to tumble over her shoulders if she'd only let it. All she needs to do is cut the tie holding this tight ponytail in place, and she'd see the truth for herself. Her fingers tremble.

She has no idea why this should be frightening. And yet it is. Vesper is a riddle; always so impossible to tell whether she's joking or making the kind of insightful point that might change your life forever. It's hard because the jest and the truth both smell the same coming from her, since usually the answer is that she's managing both at once. But then, could she really be a Duchess? What would that even mean?

What would... that... even mean? If. If her hair is really blue, then Vesper is telling her the truth. And people will follow her. And that's the thought that makes her spine shiver and her tail twitch behind her. That's the fear that makes all her fur stand up on end and her skin tingle with those strange little bumps that either mean she's very cold or very excited. That's the possibility that's making her heart pound so heavily in her chest that all of her muscles seem to have stopped working and turned the blood in her veins to a high pressure prison cutting across her entire body.

If her hair is blue, then everything about her has to change, doesn't it? But if it's not, then... it doesn't. And which of those possibilities is the worse thing to have to live with? She swallows, and hears the snip of her claws freeing the silken tumble of her long, luxuriant hair. She looks down, and realizes her eyes are squeezed shut tight. She forces them open. First the gold, and then the bloody one.

Her hair is black. Her lips purse, somewhere between elation and disappointment, when the strands slip through her fingers and catch the light as it rolls across her chest. The girl sees the truth with her own patchwork eyes, and the truth is a flash of cobalt she can never forget again. She tries to swallow, but mouth has filled with cotton. If only she hadn't thrown that bottle away.

"So it's," she stammers, unsure, "So it's true then? I'm, or at least, some parts of me are..."

She falters. The girl has no idea what word she's looking for. It would help if she knew what a Duchess actually was. A lot of the concepts Vesper likes to talk about always feel blank inside her head. But this one reminds her of another word that's never very far away from her heart. Rather, a pair of connected words that are too important to ever throw away. The first, Princess. The second, Empress.

Words so heavy, so safe, and so important that a person could cross an entire universe just for their sake. If only anyone were up to a task like that. Her hand lifts to her cheek, and flicks away a rolling tear she didn't notice was staining her face.

"Mosiac?" her voice is hopeful and uncertain in the same equal parts as the misshapen rest of her, "That's a form of artwork. The stones don't arrange themselves this way by accident. If that's me, it means somebody put me together this way on, on purpose. Did they? How could they? What would they even?"

Her thought is interrupted by a sudden sneeze. And after that sneeze, a laugh. A soft and melodious laugh that makes every hand that hears it itch for a drink and leaves them all leaning forward to catch the final notes.

"Oh, damn you. You jerk, I just realized what you're doing. You've got me so stuck on this whole thing I didn't even notice you were still trying to call me beautiful. That's not fair, how am I supposed to disagree with you when I don't even know we're fighting?"

She turns to Vesper, who used one other word for her in all the ones she'd chosen which was the most important of them all. And remembering it, she smiles. Not a wide smile, full of her sharp and delightfully pearly teeth. Just a tiny thing. Soft. Vulnerable. Trusting.

"All right, you win. I don't know if this is one of your seed names or if I'll have to carry it forever but... sure. If you really think I'm meant for something, I could be Mosaic."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One two three, four five six. One two three, four five six. Well this is a splinter if ever there was one. Static. Fog. One, two, three. Four, five, six. What can she manage in the face of this observation? One two three, four five six.

"You are correct," she says with words that feel drunk and heavy on her tongue, "You have fallen into my trap. But you are... (four five six) still mistaken on one (two three) front."

Tail Four, Tail Five, Tail Six: disengage from main body, formation on points one, two, three. Nine Drive System, Partial Configuration. The Third Form: Moonlight Fantasy, Manifestation. A new technique but a lazy one. Just a play on her Immemorial Vanguard's full-sphere protection but focused into a traditional front facing shield with the maneuverability of a single tail. Rotating but imperfect protection that doesn't require the use of either arm, and leaves other active tails free to continue other activities.

A blip over the corner of her left eye: two partial configurations at once is straining several power systems more than expected. More even than the Fang. Fascinating. And her apologies, Kiriala, for the lack of -- one two three -- vocalization. But she promised to fight you as the Ultimate Warrior would. And she Speaks Not to the Outsider. Besides which, your form leaves very little room for flourishes, if any.

Four, five, six. Divert power from thruster systems to maintain configurations. Seventy percent functionality suffices. The earlier dodge, unnecessary. The shield absorbs the laser blasts admirably, but even these weak shots will erode its integrity before long. Irrelevant. Its true purpose, the one thing it can do that the Immemorial Vanguard cannot...

...Is ram into an idiot's face when she tries the same perfect charge twice in only a handful of seconds. The flash of sparks is blinding, one two three. The impact is equivalent to planting face first into an iron root, four five six. Mirror feels none of it, even second hand through the rattling of her frame, since the point of origin isn't even touching the Gods-Smiting Whip. One, two, three. The shield shatters, along with Kiriala's form. The brief stagger buys Mirror time for a strike.

Her attack is pathetic. Lazy in the extreme. A long trailing slash from her right arm reaching up from the Ginger Tiger's thigh and ending at its midriff. The equivalent feeling through a neural mesh of having your skirt slashed open and your underwear admired by a playful finger, and nothing more. The Nine-Tails steps into the attack so that it can pivot through and roll away. Re-establish positioning and facing. Tails Four, Five, and Six are scattered, but hovering in positions both hidden and not. Deeply dangerous, and not firing at all.

Hm. Not bad. She can work with this if she doesn't fight it. One two three, four five six. Until the itch is scratched. Until she is allowed to think in a way she wants to again. She taps her fingers on the console to this new beat, and opens her mouth.

"It was not a mistake to fall for my schemes. It has purchased you the opportunity of your life, if you do not waste it. One, two. Three chances. It does not become you to attempt an experiment in this way when the variables have already changed in front of you. It is... (four five) unwise. To think my claws are the same as my fists. The next time you attempt this maneuver, I am ending our fight. So please, play with me. Find what I have left for you. Please."

Breathless Dead

The girl startles, shaken from a reverie by a sudden and shocking accusation. How serene her sister looks just now. How perfect. How graceful and majestic her feathers seem now that they're not jutting out at random angles and looking ready to shed. How pliant her fingers are and how they overlap in such perfect and intricate arrangements that it's impossible to imagine them failing at anything. She understood now, why that name had stuck. The awestruck smile was just spreading across her face, opening her lips to pay the start of some compliment.

When! All of a sudden!!

"Me?" she croaks, "No no no no. That's for you, sister. I couldn't be anyone Beautiful any more than I could be a Bella. You're, I mean, just look at you! You shine like starlight. When I watch you considering a question it's like watching a flower with infinite petals unfolding in the light of dawn. I wouldn't wish the name of a god on anybody, but if anyone could wear the mantle and not burn it'd be you. I don't... I mean,"

She holds a hand up, five plain fingers stretching to reveal thick, cruel claws.

"Just look at me. What part of me could be beautiful? I have hands like some kind of monster. My body's covered in fur in such strange ways that I can't tell which half of me was the accident. Am I meant to be growing more of it, or were my limbs struck by a disease when I was a child? I remember pain enough from back then, that feels like it might be right, but either way I'm caught in this land of in between. And just, look! Look!"

Now she pulls the shredded remnants of her dress up her leg to show off the hardened muscles that have grown in lean and irregular clusters. Whatever her history, she hadn't been born to these. Whether she was meant for softness or for the trim fit of a sprinter it was impossible to say, but her own body told her the story of someone who had fallen into and out of both shapes several times even just recently. There was no focus to any of it, no rhyme or planning. No divine hand reached down to touch her and tell her what she ought to be.

And in that absence she grew in to fit the space in all kinds of haphazard ways. Tall in ways that make her feel like ought not to be, hard and powerful but only to make her feel like a monster. Or like one is lurking just underneath her skin.

"I think I even lost an eye at some point? At least, one of these things doesn't feel like it belongs with the other. I think someone might have given me one of hers. Or maybe I am supposed to be this way. Everything about me feels like it's split along some invisible line. Maybe I was born so I could fill all kinds of roles at once. But whatever those were, none of them leave much room for being beautiful. I'm not even pretty. So come on. Don't tell jokes. At least not about this. You take the name. I look at you and my heart lights up to imagine you wearing it. It's perfect for you.

"I'll just be... hm. Where would I even begin? It felt so easy telling you, but I can't seem to turn it back around on me at all. What do I even want to be? What should I?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The attack does not leave time for conscious assessment or planning. It's so fast that if she hadn't precalculated an attack vector before throwing her trident, she might be in pieces now. There is no time for assessment and no chance to prioritize the preservation of secrets. This single line was pre-selected as a worst case scenario that would result in the breaking of a promise, but even anticipating it her reactions are not up to par.

Unless.

Thrusters fire, left shoulder. Hold burst for 0.75 seconds, angle for descent. Push Gods-Smiting Whip into the grass from full standing, opposite arm out to break fall. Result: spear thrust redirected to shoulder, damage noteworthy but within mitigation standards. Result: temporary removal from opponent line of sight.

Minimal attack window. Separate right leg from joint, swing for power along pre-selected circle in coordination with left leg. All thrusters fire, microburst. Roll frame along damaged shoulder unit and redirect momentum toward standing position. Left leg jump, right leg lift for loose guard. Rising punch to opponent chest section, redirect momentum from spear thrust as cross counter damage. Re-attach right leg joint, allow upward velocity to carry frame in wheel formation. Land on reattached limb for stress test and final lock in checks.

All in all, impossible response. Degree of implied pain through neural link beyond known capabilities of Hybrasilian species. Degree of independent limb movement and redirection also beyond natural range. Questions asked, questions answered. Overall sacrifice deemed acceptable for continuation of primary and secondary objectives. Nine-Tails remains in working order. Terrain remains relatively pristine. Opponent on ground.

"Impressive form," Mirror chirps, "I see where your match record comes from. And why you are so effective despite ceding the advantage on mecha specifications to nearly every participant here. Mmmm, mmmmm! I have never been the slower fighter before, this is fun!"

Mirror does not close in for the kill. In the time it takes the Ginger Tiger to regain its feet, she instead grabs Tails One and Two from the air behind her and attaches them to the forearms of the Gods-Smiting Whip. She flourishes with each arm in turn, and a pair of brilliant blue plasma blades erupt from the ends to cover its fists. Each of the formations is relatively small, but watching closely the edges occasionally crackle with a rippling, lethal seeming power reminiscent of the the deathblow she attempted to finish Solarel with.

"Nine Drive System, Partial Configuration. The First Form: The Claw That Steals the Sky. Come, up! Fight with me, Kiriala of the Ginger Tiger! Play with me, you who hides her name from the stars! This match has no meaning, no value to either of us, so let's have some fun! If we cannot nap together, then this is my solution. I will not fight you to incapacitation. Rather, I offer you the following conditions: I am bound today by two secret, unbreakable rules. Discover them and force me to concede either one, and even if you wind up in pieces I will pick you up again and call you Victor. I will allow you to employ me for one full day without cost or contract, and I will not leave you wanting."

"But!" she thrusts a blade-arm through the air, then waggles it like a teasing finger, "If my rules remain in place at the end of our match, then no matter what the Arena score may say about us, I will be victorious, and you will wind up owing me instead. And I will give you this single warning before we begin: this is not me taking you lightly. Your combat skills and speed exceed my own. I acknowledge that I cannot overcome you through raw prowess. So I have decided."

Mirror snaps her fingers, and the sound echoes over comms and across every broadcast of the match, however big or small they might be today. And in that instant, the net in the Ginger Tiger's hand falls apart; shredded to useless bits. She flashes a toothy smile that drips with playful malice.

"I will fight you in the manner befitting of the Ultimate Warrior."

(Mirror rolls Fight: 11. She takes the net, a superior position, and a string. She is very explicitly opting not to inflict conditions in this match)

Breathless Dead

It takes time to move from house to house in search of pharmaceuticals (and anything else she can think to look for). The story she listens to unfolds across each of them, from tiny one room apartments that are little more than furnished closets to sprawling ranches with more rooms than sense and seemingly every other thing in between. If it might have been a home, she breaks into it, steals its drugs, and leaves.

She is quiet, for the most part. The searching is mostly not difficult, the girl can do this by smell alone. None of the doors are guarded, and for all the lack of security their locks are likewise unimpressive. It's nice. It lets her focus on her sister and her many names, her many lives, and her many stories. Each one feels so rich in detail that it's hard to even hold onto all of it by the time she reaches the end of a new piece of explanation. And impossible to believe anyone could have so much to their lives in the first place. But if anyone could, it'd be this wretched creature at her side with her mesmerizing eyes. They remind the girl of stars, though she can't explain why. But the connection refuses to leave her, so she holds onto it.

Hm. Maybe some sort of star name? She opens her mouth to make the suggestion when her eye is pulled toward a tall bottle made of darkened glass. Her head tilts in curiosity, and her feet carry her across the plush carpet to grasp it in her hands. The top has been stopped up for some reason with a cork, but a quick twist of her pinky claw and that obstacle pops out without effort.

She brings the bottle close to her nose and sniffs deeply. Straight away her entire face scrunches up in distaste, and what had been a search for an appropriate seeming glass instead becomes a tentative holding out of her fingers. Just enough to catch a couple of drops and bring them to her tongue.

"Oh! Gods," she retches, "That is just... eugh. You know for some reason when I saw this I was sure it would be delicious? I don't know, I just... can't imagine anything this color ever tasting bad? But no. No. Oh please, no. That's so disappointing. Do you think it went, like, bad? I mean, who knows how long any of this stuff has been sitting here."

With a shrug and a sigh she upends the bottle over a tap drain, looking betrayed the entire time.

"...Do you really think it matters? Your old names, I mean. Not that I don't understand the appeal of having a single name that you can define yourself by or anything, but if you ask me it's natural to have different names for different parts of your life. For instance, I did have a childhood but it... hm? Hmmm. I wish I could remember what it was like. I feel like you deserve a story to pay you back for all the ones you've given me.

"Still, for a time like that, when I was small and learning they'd have had a name for me, wouldn't they? I couldn't have chosen it by myself the way that you did. But I grew up and came to my family, and they must have called me something different. It'd be ridiculous, calling me by a child's name now that I'm as large as I am. I think it's the same thing for you."

She holds up a hand to head off a shake of her sister's head she can feel coming in the air around them both.

"No, I'm serious. Your past might be soaked in blood, but why should your future be? There's no one to kill out here. There's... no one at all, really. But even if there was, there's no more Admiral Heller to make you do that stuff. And even if there was we could always... walk away? Really, I think finding a name that could stand up to your entire life would be difficult even if there was no blood at all. But a new name... doesn't have to follow you back into the past."

She finds another bottle, and pops it open before she can stop herself. She's all the way to tasting it before she realizes her mistake and makes another face. But this time what registers is more... uncertainty than outright disgust. She takes another tiny sip, then violently shakes her head. The bright yellow label on the bottle dances in the light as she hurls it across the room from her, where it rolls cheerfully away into the yard beyond.

"If you'd like to be someone different than you were. Even just a little. I dunno. A name's as good a place to start as any."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"To be honest with you..."

Mirror stretches at her console, straining her arms until her shoulders crack in pleasant release. She's halfway to yawning again but she suppresses it for the sake of the show. Batting aside these test shots is kitten play, she can do it without even paying half attention. She starts to twirl her trident as a makeshift shield rather than swatting aside individual blasts just to revel in the sheer laziness of the battle.

"I would prefer to disappoint you. A crushing loss serves me at least as well as a nap. There is only one match worth spending all my secrets for, and until it is fought and won even claiming my wish is of secondary concern at best. Though make no mistake, Kiriala of the Ginger Tiger, I will be the one to win this tournament in the end."

Closer. Closer. She does not move. Her tails twitch in anticipation of a kill shot, but her fingers slide over the buttons without the slightest twitch of commitment. She lets her trident finish its movement with a slashing flourish that tilts it behind the body of the Gods-Smiting Whip. Now she dodges the lasers with tiny, non-committal movements. Little twitches of movement through her great mecha that bend it almost imperceptibly out of harm's way.

Of course, twitch movement like this is difficult in the extreme at the mecha level. Even attempting it is risking one of her secrets, or at least revealing that she has one. But what choice is there? She is not only relaxed, she is bored. And the consequences of her decision regarding this little test have left her fingers with unacceptably little to do.

With a suddenness that screams snap decision making, she drops the Nine-Tails into a crouching position. Trident still held behind her back, free hand placed onto the ground with splayed fingers, corresponding leg stretched wide out to one side. A Huntress' pose, through and through.

"How! Ev! Er! Had you accepted my offer without a question, I would have bifurcated you on the spot for your disrespect. You have passed my first test. I now repeat my offer: will you not relax with me?"

She leaps into the air, as high as she can get on only the strength of her legs. It is only once she is clear of the beautiful, swaying grasses that she engages her thrusters and truly begins to fly. Up she goes, where the light of the sun kisses her freely. Where the true power of her mecha manifests over all the small dreamers to afraid to fly on fire. Where laser fire is easy to dodge as she makes her charge down from on high. Where she has retreated at the beginning of every single fight in this entire tournament.

She does not bother checking the meter for her chains. No points for creativity to be earned here. But that has always been the point. Every opponent, the same strategy. A tendency, now locked into dossiers as an obsession. Whatever adaptive tactics she may display later on in fights and however terrifying the power of her Gods-Smiting Whip may be, her favorite maneuver is this one. Possibly it is a compulsion, something she must begin her matches with owing to a disease inside her brain.

Whatever explanations they come up with, to date she has not been punished for it. No one, not even Solarel, had yet countered her comet dive. They all simply allowed her to take position, maybe even end the fight from the very beginning, and only after would any kind of chaos or interesting challenge play out.

Will you be more of the same, Beloved of Maeahu? Will you allow her to pass through the entire qualifiers unpunished for her obsessive hubris and standardized tactics? Have you at least read up on her enough to expect it, or is the game that you are playing the same challenge of sight-reading that Mirror had settled on for you?

In every other match to date, Mirror's flight and charge have been accompanied by a barrage of high-energy lasers from her free floating tails. This much, then, is different. There is no attempt at covering her position from up here, she simply weaves and twirls her way through the strafing into an attacking position. In the past she has displayed a kind of zeal for almost obliterating her environments, and has left more than one arena so demolished that even Zaldarian technique wept at the job in front of it.

At the last moment, Mirror switches the angle of her thruster fire and cuts from a full charge to a hover. The gravitational forces it exerts on her body are enough to twist her stomach, squeeze her skull, and pry a grunt from between her lips. In a moment she will need to take a hand off her controls to hold her head and keep her vision from blurring too much to keep fighting. But the moment of energy shifting marks a perfect moment where a trident can be hurled with the force of a hellfire missile barrage.

She smiles as her primary melee weapon transforms into a bolt of divine punishment, and smiles even wider when she imagines Slate's face at the moment she realizes she'll need to find a replacement for it at the literal last second before the main tournament. Then all at once she cuts her engines and lets herself drop into the dancing grass below, leaving a rippling imprint of her landing but not a scorch to be found.

She has already made a promise not to allow herself to come to serious injury. Now she adds a promise on top of that: to preserve this beautiful and relaxing arena but whatever means necessary.

(Center of the Web has been activated for +1 Forward in the scene. Mirror likewise Defies Disaster to begin her fight in earnest and scores a 12)

Breathless Dead

Beautiful. Whoever came up with that name must have been on some powerful drugs. There is nothing about the woman in front of her that she could call 'beautiful', at least by any objective standard she's aware of. Her sister's assessment of herself is startlingly accurate: the emaciation and the tension of her stress response has left her looking stringy and jittery in a way that makes it uncomfortable to look right at her for too long. Her feathers seem sickly and ready to fall out all on their own, without the need for her nervous plucking to speed them along. She even smells unpleasant, in that hollow-sweet way of the dying.

But then there are her eyes. Those piercing, violet eyes. So bright and alive and sharper than a knife that looking into them feels like falling into a bottomless pit while being dissected at the same time. Even as tired as they seem, they gleam with a curiosity that seeks to understand every last detail of everything around them, even (especially?) the most familiar things around. But more than that, there's a light of something the girl can't really describe. There's a word for it, one she's sure she's supposed to know but just the simple concept slides right off of her brain and back into nothingness.

Maybe Beautiful is the best way to describe her after all.

The girl sighs as she hunches down in front of a locked door. Her body is tense, but not in the way her many-named sister is attempting to explain. There is nothing of tiger goddesses inside of her. Probably. But her claws are sharp and ready, and they cut through the handle of the door so swiftly she doesn't even register the tactile feedback of the metal pushing back against her before it's gone. There's a whisper of something sliding open and then a clatter of pieces on the step at her feet. The door swings open freely. This is how you pick a lock.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Sister. Unless you would... prefer I not call you that? The word feels right and wrong at the same time, I don't understand it. There's... well, anyway. I'm not shooting you. And if you wanted to die there are better ways to go about it. You wouldn't even know it was-- mm."

She gestures through the open door.

"I need you to lead. I don't know what the drugs they might be keeping in here look or smell like. Rampancy is not a game we should be playing, and in any case constant stress is no good way to live."

As she stands, she frowns and shakes her head. A small and hopeful spark dies inside her sister's eyes, and as quick as she is to disguise her face and her body language, she can't do anything about the pheromone release of pure disappointment leaking from her pores. A few sad feathers drift to the ground before they're caught up in a passing breeze, and dance with each other for a moment before they fall inert forever.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could remember the details, or at least why it feels ironic to be speaking to you like this, but I just don't. I do know that word, though. I'm never going to forget it; it's the reason why I'm here in the first place. I made a wish, you know. On that sword. There are people that I care about, so much that I think it could drive me insane. And for some reason almost all of them carry this disease. Is it because I know the pain it causes, too? Is that why I want to wish it away?"

She cuts a regal figure even here, burglarizing this house for sedatives she has no understanding of. Her back is straight and even her ruined clothing hangs off of her in a way that makes her seem like a queen instead of someone desperately trying to do something, just anything at all to help so that she doesn't fail the person watching her and lose her like she's managed to lose everything else. And maybe it takes a queen's courage to admit that you're scared to lose the only person you've ever known whose violet eyes and nonsense speeches stand among the lone treasures of the universe that make her feel like she belongs somewhere.

Not for any grandiose reason like she keeps trying to put to it. But because she is a small and needy creature after all. Here inside Oblivion.

"Do you know, though? I feel like all the names you just told me are terrible. No offense. I have no idea which one of them I would have called you when I knew it. Was it all of them? But they're all just dumb jokes. Maybe none of it meant anything to you then, but just look at you now. If I were you I'd want a new one. What's something you wouldn't be embarrassed to be called twice? Or maybe even forever?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Hybrasil is not my mother: I was born to space. Grandmother Hybrasil is more appropriate, and I might argue more respectful to begin with. Do you not agree?"

Mirror yawns. She allows it to be long, wide, and in particular loud. Communication of absolute comfort; a total lack of threat detected. The atmosphere here has put her at ease and there is nothing in the sipping of ginger tea, the talk of work, this too-short-too-plain mecha, or this casual opening volley to put tension in her nerves.

Home at last. The Gods-Smiting Whip welcomes her back eagerly with a sharper response time than she remembers from the duel with Heim Stockar. As if it saw her traipsing across the stars with some strange goddess and said to itself that it would not lose to the Smokeless Jade Fires on any front. Even the tactile response of her control panel feels better than usual. Matty and Slate have earned their special treat time, and more than that besides.

She allows herself to blink. Even throws in an indulgent stretch. Slow and luxurious. One would be forgiven for forgetting she's in a fight at all.

"Tiger pouncing, empty belly. Tiger crouching, blood on lips. Suppose you've done your reading and observation on me as well, then. Am I a cornered smuggler, pinned down in my hold? What a wonderful thought. Almost as if nothing I do here matters. How freeing~"

Her trident flashes in front of her in a series of crisp, tight thrusts. This is all the motion she offers to bat aside the volley of laser fire, and that only to avoid damaging her fresh paint job. It's a fun little puzzle she's offering for Kiriala: these attacks she has chosen as her method of damage avoidance require the planting of her feet and locking the Gods-Smiting Whip into stances that (theoretically) preclude several types of countermeasures for any follow-up attacks. In a very real sense, for the terrain she finds herself in this attempt at the so-called 'neutral' path has committed her next moves far more strictly than if she'd simply dodged to any side.

But her three active tails (One, Two, and Three today. Really, Matty?) are poised and pointed to cover her body. Any of the basic lines that could be taken to make use of the spear or the net would be met with instant, guaranteed amputation at the luckiest. The fight over before it started. What will you reveal, Kiriala? If you pounce, you ignore the threat of her tails and say that from the beginning this match was nothing to you. If you hold back, wary of her tails, you tell her you've been watching, reading, building your profile, and you're ready to play that card for the sake of tournament seeding.

But if you find the secret she's left inside this trap... well. Promises, promises, Kiriala of the ginger tea.

"Actually, I'm rather fond of the arena they've chosen for us. Seeing as this is so near to pointless for both of us, could I convince you to lie down with me, instead? You strike me as the sort who would enjoy the chance to take nap on the job. And my family would certainly appreciate my taking the opportunity to catch up on rest. I have been... neglecting the need for some time. If you understand me."

(Figure Out a Person: 7. Asking "What do you hope to get from this match?", and since this is a combat, "What do you want me to be?". Holding the third question in reserve for now]