Phoe

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

She takes the time to flip her sword over in her hand. This is so she can press the hilt over her Master's lips. They stare into each other's eyes but the warrior is already scrambling away from the wall to avoid being crushed under the latest barrage of giant artillery.

"Patience," she growls, "If you want a treat then earn it, Master. The mystery of what's underneath this armor is more than worth the wait."

There is the merest hint of a smile before she lifts the blade again. She sets it gently in her teeth and bites down with practiced care so as not to shatter any on her invincible sword. Not that they wouldn't regrow, but it's a question of grip in the meanwhile. She hand slides smoothly along her side and up her back to grab her axe again, and she turns to face the onslaught of the skies.

One, two, three, she counts as she shadow above her grows deeper and fuller in the promise of death. Her long, sinewy legs tense in preparation of a charge. Four, five, go! The mysterious shark woman rushes forward to the absolute edge of the shadow and leaps up as high as she can manage. This batch of siege fire is better clocked on her position than the last volley, and is more densely clustered as a result.

That's what she was counting on. With a grunt of effort she kicks off the edge of the first boulder and tumbles into the second. Her feet scrabble against its rough surface for a moment trying to find purchase before she manages to turn herself around. She pushes off again and rises into the sky on a high arc that is carrying her directly into the path of yet another rock. Her eyes glint in delight and she throws the axe with all of her strength directly at the wall: it tumbles gracelessly end over end in seeming slow motion before it buries itself more than halfway up the head in the middle of the barrier.

The next boulder crushes into her, but the Servant is prepared for this too. Three on one, with time to plan, and hers a broken Master to boot? That just makes this fun!. She rolls her body to spare Diaofei the shock of the impact, the arm cradling her tightening as her body compresses to feel once more the truth of the hardened muscles the unfortunate little priest still has to her name in spite of every curse and poor decision that had dragged her underneath the waters of an icy bathtub in the middle of a ritual. Her free arm stretches and the warrior punches the side of the rock with all of her might. It buys her just enough momentum shift to hurtle her way toward the buried axe.

A creature of her size should not be able to pivot so smoothly or seem so at home in the air. Yet she manages. Her great tangle of powerful limbs rights itself out of the topspin in time to set her legs against the haft of her buried axe in control enough to push and leap off of her makeshift springboard, though it shatters the weapon to do so. Up she sails, and up and up and up. Down she falls like a comet, drawing her sword free from her teeth and crushing down on the knight in a burst of steel and sparks.

Expertly parried. The warrior's eyes light up with a thrill as she is hurtled effortlessly back up into the air again. She is forced to twist her hips and then her spine to keep momentum from throwing her back to the bottom again and even then only just manages to skid to a halt on the edge of the rampart. Her battle stance once again returns to a half-bestial crouching, only now with the sword in her hand and her Master still tucked protectively in the other she favors leaning far back on her left leg and stretching the right one out in counterbalance, hunching over her extended knee with her impossible torso instead of putting her weight on her hand again like a paw.

She snorts.

"Ho there, little English! You happen to be fancy yourself one of those honorable knight types? 'Cause I've got a mind to bargain with you if you've got ears to listen."

She shifts forward all of a sudden and they clash in a flurry of slashes that grind edge against edge. Behind her the latest deadly missile crashes through the floor of where she'd been standing just a second before. She lets out a low whistle as the material seamlessly reconstructs itself in an absolute refusal of the castle to yield even to the viciousness of her own allies. They separate once more, and a cold night wind howls between them.

"They call me Saber. At least so far as you're concerned anyway. Which one are you then, child of steel skirts and a lifeless home?"

Breathless Dead

"No, I--"

Bella's body tenses. Her claws tear into Ember's pants and only just avoid breaking the skin underneath. Her legs tense like iron and her spine snaps full straight so fast it causes pain. Her ears strain until they can detect the sound of bursting fireworks, dulled but not muted entirely.

She takes a deep breath and feels it press her chest into Ember's back. Heat flushes through her body when she realizes how much it soothes her. She lifts the Ceronian up to touch her chin against the top of her head, and crosses her legs underneath before the weight settles back down so that her lap now mirrors her meditation pose.

Her arms wrap around her... around Mosaic's... fuck it, around her girlfriend, and she breathes. In, heartbeat against heartbeat, out. In, feel her jacket slipping open, out. In, the fur on Ember's neck dripping sweat into the fur on her own arm, out. In, excitement and heat and sweet smelling arousal that stirs something in the base of her tail, out. In...

"That isn't... what I meant. Maybe it doesn't matter to you and it doesn't change where I'm going but I just. Is it that weird to want to know where I came from? What the fuck's wrong with that? Maybe I want... I don't know, if they're out there somewhere maybe I want to save them. Who cares?

"I just want to know what I am, Ember. If I'm going to be a leader now then it's all different. I need to understand myself, I want to... When my mother put me together I just. I don't know which parts she changed. It feels important, all of a sudden. That's all."

Bella works Ember's shirt halfway up her body. Enough to expose her but not enough to free her. In fact it pins her arms in place and leaves her free to put her own hands wherever she wants them. She slides her fingers along the subtle curves of Ember's body, feeling the spine, the ribs, the protrusions of her hips, and all the gentle shivers when her fingers find a spot that makes the wolf girl's heart start to quicken.

Up and down, the front of one hand and the back of another. Tracing her stomach. Up her breasts. Under her half-stuck shirt and across her collarbone. Her teeth nip at Ember's ear. And she breathes.

In, flustered giggling and the feeling of desperate squirming into her legs, out. In, waiting for an answer through all of the teasing, out. In, eyes on the brilliant motes of light still bursting all around them, out.

In. Because that is how she'll keep living. And out. In. Just like before. And out. In. Because she owes them all that much. And out. Until it's normal. Until Bella is...

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Always. Always one layer of defense.

Never more than one.

Once again she is outmatched. The Third Form functions largely through combining Tail outputs to create defenses (or occasionally traps). That is to say it wins via superior numbers. Bringing the same number of independent weapons platforms truly was a masterstroke. There is simply no way for her to overload the field without resorting to the Immemorial Vanguard.

It had been a difficult decision, to maintain the chains Trosta and Matty forged for her Nine Drive System in this battle. In the end it had been exactly the Third Form pinnacle technique that had swayed her: specifically, removing the temptation to ever use it by removing her capability until her scheme had achieved fruition. And now that decision looked an awful lot like death.

One. Two. Three. Four. Fifth close to unlock but remains unachieved. Picky little system, honestly. If she were grading herself Mira would have awarded the Silver Kiss-Lover's Nip combo at least five full Tails on its own. Just because she hadn't been able to chain it into-- nngh. Distraction. Cutting thought, resuming.

> i did say it was fine not to answer.
> but that is disappointing.
> under this assessment it follows that refusal to engage on my terms will result in automatic and crushing victory.
> yes?
> i acknowledge that my skill is lesser than yours.
> that's going to make what happens next feel extra humiliating.
> <3.

Her active Tails scatter to draw their shadow counterparts further afield. They rotate constantly, seeking wider and wider spirals that are constantly marked by beams of indiscriminate destruction. They do not connect with any of the Aeteline's weapons platforms, only some of the ammunition being dumped toward them. The damage to the forest is immeasurable. Trees fall into the river and build haphazard dams that create whitewater rapids where there had only been quiet, fast currents before. Sprays of mud fly every which way and waves of leaves and vines roll across the battlefield.

All is chaos. All is flash and showmanship with no tactical benefit. It is distraction and it is is evasion and it is a weakness because it is pulling her vaunted weapons further and further away from her main body, as if the summation of her response amounted to nothing more than testing and hoping that Solarel's Aeteline was less skilled at this style of combat than Mira's Gods-Smiting Whip. If just this one time she could beat somebody with experience.

...Tail 5 confirmed greenlit. Tail 6 gauge building. She does not launch yet. Instead, Mira plants her feet and grips the remains of her sword that she's burned down half a forest to find again. The Gods-Smiting Whip's left foot plants itself in the mud even as the rest of the machine maintains its stubborn hover and the weapon swings from ground to sky in a massive vertical arc. Even so there is nothing to be done about the Aeteline's high speed charge, that has tracked her down even at her maximum maneuverability settings.

She is outmatched. The only reason she will survive that is the fact that she has a lot of practice fighting under that condition. All the same the best she can hope for is a damage trade before she slips away into the camouflage she hopes she's creating all around her.

Always one layer of defense. Never more than one. But if you count her philosophy as valid, it's important to ask yourself: what's that layer for?

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Her eyes behold the sky. Or rather, they don't. Even the stars' light is blotted out and she is plunged into true shadow where only the light of her bonfire gives her anything to see. She smiles as she places the axe upon the strap on her back once again.

Her hand reaches to her hip to grip the hilt of her sword, instead.

"So you've already got an alliance, do you? Excellent, that saves time! If this is the true form of your invitation, I accept. Let's see which of us is stronger!"

The sword that she pulls from her scabbard is long and straight with an oversized grip, good for taking advantage of her unusual build and long, strong fingers. There is next to no crossguard, which she uses to grip it in both hands for maximum power. It is also a blade worthy of her boasting: plainly nothing less than a sword of kings.

The blade is gold and swirling silver inscribed with runes down its entire length from hilt to tip. They tell a story and they promise victory and they promise a fight worthy of the end of times, but the greater promise is in the shine of the metals and the glint of the impossibly sharp edge. The weight of the weapon is massive such that her Master would struggle to even lift it, but in her hands it sings. She raises it in front of her and steps into a swing.

...And then her head turns. Her icy eye falls on her Master. The precisely cleaved remains of a single boulder crash to either side of her and snuff out their fire with a plume of dirt and dust. That's one. And death still rains from above.

"Shit." she says, and wisely so.

"Shit, shit, shit. You pain in the ass, you'd better appreciate this."

She drops the two-handed grip to hold her weapon with only her right hand; her left bends to scoop up Diaofei as she turns and runs. All around her, meteors continue to crash and roar. She has a curse for every one of them, but they do as good as the air she blows on them to stop anything.

That's how it is. Luckily the one mark of all the greatest warriors in history was the ability and willingness to run away. She doesn't bother with the smooth strides of her hunt: now her overlong legs tense and burst off of the earth so that she rises into the air the way a shark breaches the water in pursuit of a seal. Forward she flies and up she rises. Left and now right and now left. She climbs a staircase of falling rocks, bouncing back and forth between them to push them into one another so she can ride the resulting to avalanche to something approaching safety.

But still they fall. Something clips her in the shoulder. She rolls along the direction of the blow to shield Diaofei and slashes behind her as she turns, but what good does it do to slay a boulder? She can only grit her jagged teeth and run, her heavy braid dancing behind her in search of fresh starlight.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

It feels ridiculous to imagine a creature such as her sniffing cautiously at a cup of alcohol. But if it can be described as anything at all, that is what she does: holding the aluminum cup in front of her and taking several short, loud whiffs before daring the tiniest and most timid sip someone of her stature is capable of. Though the rest disappears down her throat in short order.

She throws the cup in the fire when she's finished. And then she laughs, the short barking bursts of the deeply amused trying to master themselves and failing utterly.

Her gaze turns to her Master. Her hand reaches for her axe. The bending of her limb and the sheer length of the handle lends an effortless sort of grace to the motion of loosing it. It is only now for the fist time that she lets her other arm leave the earth. It is in this moment hat her spine uncurls and her knees straighten.

Her neck doesn't lift with a King's pride. Not yet. She's spent too much of her life hunched over for that; she must stretch it out first to give herself back the proper flexibility to tower as she was meant to. But now that she is lifted up, she crests over nine feet from the ground. She is a monster, and everything about her is too large and too long.

"It is true," she says with a finger tracing the blade of her weapon, "That this woman is utterly worthless. She cannot supply me with mana. She is not a tactician, I am not even certain she knows what a war is. She cannot lift me up. She cannot even take care of herself. For a body as broken as hers, a warrior's death is the best that I can offer her."

She turns away from Diaofei to look now at the old man with the raven. Her eyes are frozen fury.

"But she called to me. And she has faithfully obeyed the demands of her King. You are correct, Nofather. Your story makes no sense at all."

Some would argue that she is a fool for sacrificing the surprise attack just to trade words and defend her drunken, dozing Master. But others are watching. With the speed at which she pounces, the way the axe lifts above her head in an instant, and the certainty with which she brings it down on the old man's head...

What need hath a warrior for skulking? When victory is at hand, why not grab it? If a head is offered to her so plainly, why should she have to play tricks just to claim it?

The might of her strike is enough to fell a thousand year old tree in a single blow. It shakes the earth and drives the winds to storming. And that is why she charged for hospitality, you fool.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

A front on charge during a stance shift. Really. Well. Let's see the layers underneath that, Solarel. You will not, of course, have forgotten the reason your original duel took an entire day/night cycle to win. It's easy to discount it next to the flash factor of the Tails and the Nine Drive System, but you alone of anybody in this tournament should have recognized the most significant alteration to the Gods-Smiting Whip that Mira made after the war ended.

The thrusters. Arguable that the real point of offloading so much of her offensive capability into drones was not her super attacks or her multifaceted arsenal. Correct to identify those as gimmicks. Afterthoughts. Philosophical guideposts more than true teeth. Was not the proof that she had several, brand new named techniques every time she fought somebody? Her first and best trick was always the product of her being a Spacer with a disability. In zero gravity it was effortless, but here she needed the Tails to devote the full power of her frame to recreating it.

Of course you do not need reminding. This is step one of your plan to fence in her thinking. You were aware of Animation Cancelling. With her constant hovering and micro-twitch bursts there is a constant threat that she might swerve or parry from a direction that should be impossible. She abuses it constantly; either literally doing two things at the same time or dipping out of the middle/end of a committed action into a second unrelated action.

For all of that, you pierce her. But it's in a location of her choosing: next to the cockpit, through mostly armor and heat ventilation. No points of articulation or critical power conduits she'll need to concern herself with in the context of this battle. No opportunity to combine this with a tearing slash and hit a vital system, even if you swap blades. She aimed your thrust by angling her momentum during her technique's wind up.

> i see.
> you are literally blind.
> that is upsetting.

You're already caught, Solarel. The swing of the Tail you so deftly outmaneuvered continued. The Whip's hand grappled it on the downswing, and now the barrier-chain that connects the two weapons is squeezing your sword arm with a vice the envy of all crab-kind. She pulls the Tails between one another and the squeezing turns to crushing. At this moment she has total control of your melee offense.

Tactical correction is simple. Destruction of the arm returns freedom of motion. Freedom of motion is freedom of action: even Mira cannot twitch react her way out of the sudden loss of what had been tactical control, the weakness of her piloting schema requires her to anticipate all attacks ahead of time. Being even half a step ahead of her is equivalent to killing her. In fact, just crushing the forearm would be enough, and the resulting torque would pull the God-Smiting Whip far enough out of alignment that she would need to re-orient her thrusters entirely just to stay airborne. Four deathblows are possible inside that window.

"Moonlight. Lover's Nip."

This is a First Form technique! The line she tried to defeat you with the first time, that culminates in the Fang That Devours the Sun. Disruption and close range concepts. The chain shatters in a burst of light, and the tips of the Tails she's holding flare into dagger-scaled blades that connect with the Aetiline's neck and chest. Minimal piercing, superficial damage. Sensory overload only: the replication of her teeth on Solarel's body during their old lovemaking sessions. She has targeted the locations most closely correlated with drawing gasps out of her partner.

And she has used the small moment of disorientation to cross two additional free floating Tails over her head. They fire, easily dodged. But the space that is most efficiently dodged into is already being filled by her own wheeling foot. This is how it feels to get kicked in the head, by the way. Thrusters fire directly after, pushing you apart and charring the external plating of the Aetiline's face.

The final sequence, all unnamed techniques. Suppose that proves the point then. The Gods-Smiting Whip is retreating toward the jungle, burning down the Arena behind it with four active Tails all raining absolutely indiscriminate bursts of energy without caring what they hit or don't. Basic. Utterly basic. And obvious, that the cat would retreat into the jungle after only barely being able to scrape out a tiny kiss with both of her vaunted forms.

Besides, that's where her sword ended up. In the end it does come down to basics. What is she guided by?

> i will ask you two questions if you do not mind.
> feel free not to answer if it is too difficult in your condition.
> what useless trick do you think I am building up to?
> and are you aware you are stumbling into the same trap that almost cost me this nine-tails to the fucking bezorel?

Breathless Dead

Bella clamps a hand under Ember's jaw before she can add anymore words to what should be a silent display of pyrotechnics. She feels her chest squish against Ember's back as she leans forward, warm skin pressing against a cool jacket. Her stomach clenches; hair tumbles over her shoulder and down Ember's face. Her finger press up as her neck and shoulders curl down, and their mouths meet in the middle.

There is a struggle, at the start. Startled grunts melt into moans and the strain she feels against her arms lasts only a moment or two before all of that weight is sinking into her, instead. kiss is burning hot and dripping wet. It tastes of flatbread and cheap wine, and it makes Bella's tail curl at the tip. She pulls away as her injured hand starts to twitch and curl in on itself.

She forces her breathing to stay steady, so that her heart will not flutter and betray her. She forces her jaw to stay loose, so that her teeth will not clench and give her away. She forces her eyes to stay shut, so that Ember can't look into them and see all of the conflict and pain that is welling up inside her chest like a storm. When they part she turns and watches the fireworks, pulling Ember inside of her jacket. Her good hand presses two claws on the inside of Ember's thigh, and traces them softly up and down. Her lips curl upward, though they don't quite manage a smile.

"Moron," she says, "What good's your threat now?"

All the answer she gets is a flush of warmth, a flustered giggle that's fighting with a sigh, and the thumping of a tail. But there is tension in both bodies that cannot be willed or massaged away. The air is filled with intoxicating musk tinged through with bitter sweats and salts that scream nerves. Fuck. It's just not good enough.

Bella pulls Ember closer against her body, wrapping her with both arms tight enough to prevent movement. No food, no drink, no anything but sitting and watching and feeling their breathing slowly sync. It's... wrong. To steal her like this. But watching Ember's golden hair grow increasingly messy, she can't help but think it. Mosaic turned out to have pretty good taste.

"Hey." Bella's voice cuts through the silence, "Do you think... I'm the only one of me? Forget about the demigod thing for a second. I am still a Servitor. Do you think my species was discontinued? Am I what's left? I'd just, mmmrn. It'd be nice to know what home looks like. Or family for that matter. All I've ever had is what I could scrape together for myself. It's not like you and your pack. Even where I came from, nobody had my face. I mean... whatever.

"How'd you get these things so quiet, anyway? I've never been able to get this close before."

Bella unhooks an arm so she can reach for her glass. She picks it up between three fingers, swirls the glass and sniffs. See, Ember? Like this. The vintage is bland by her standards, but the taste was never the point of asking for it in the first place.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Her hand is on the haft of her axe before the voice has a face. When she sees him, it lowers slowly down to her hip instead.

"There is room enough, elder. The food is hardly fit for kings, but if you can tolerate it you are welcome to fill your belly while you rest your feet."

Not possible. Not. Still, she does not strike. She only moves to pluck some of the meat and several charred vegetables from her spit and place it in the empty bowl. The gods are dead, this she knows. And yet it is... possible. And if it is possible, she cannot act. Terrible things befall those who fail the tests of Odin.

But even knowing who she might be speaking to the warrior does not straighten her posture or vaguely attempt politeness beyond her little niceties already given. She stays hunched with one hand planted on the ground in front of her. Pride is nothing before practicality and there is little enough to be gained by being a perfect host here in the middle of nowhere, so far from her halls and her wealth. In fact, the more of a beast she seemed, the better.

"There is nothing to wash it down with I'm afraid," she says with a jerk of her head toward her Master, "This idiot drained every bottle we were carrying. But there is a fountain not far off; if you require it I will point you in its direction."

She watches the old man's every motion with equal parts curiosity, caution, and unconscious reverence as she perches by the fire. She does not move, and yet she is not still. She is silent, and yet she is not quiet. Her fingers dig into the dirt and her hips shift her weight from side to side. This makes her leathers creak and her chain clink and rattle against the weapons she carries on her body. Her long, banded braid scrapes across her outfit until it falls on the ground with a heavy thud and pools by her feet.

It's a dangerous game though, to be playing at Host with someone who she might still need to kill. But what signs should she be watching if not the ones in front of her? He came to her after Ragnarok had passed and taken him. He came to her carrying a raven, but without any wolves. He came to her begging but unbent, at once weak and much, much too strong. There are any number of terrible things this old man could be, and the very worst of them is exactly what he looks like.

The thumb on her free hand stretches across her other fingers, and worries at her rings.

"None of this is free, friend. Your name, your destination, and a story. I'll accept those as payment for fire food and directions, though if you're hiding something richer I'll take those too."

She grins: firelight dances in reflection across her razor teeth.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

> you can be so insensitive sometimes.
> i swear.
> very well if that is the extent of your vision at present.
> it falls to me to instruct you.

The nature of the weapon in the Gods-Smiting Whip's hands is such that it cannot help but make very straightforward, predictable moves. Even a true genius (which Mira is not) is trading subtlety for the inevitability of an absolute kill stroke. So it is not any surprise at all when Mira's first move in the battle is a headlong rush at maximum speed. Her fear of the Aetiline's golden blade is nonexistent.

"In"! she screams, and writes her words in the air, "The beauty!"

The blow never falls. The Gods-Smiting Whip pivots on a pin with the kind of speed that would snap the spine of a traditional pilot but merely threatens to kill Mira with her own blood and the forces of gravity she exerts upon herself. Instead of the horizontal swing she turns her mecha's body and fires three quick blasts from three Tails at the absolute edge of melee range before she rockets around in a circle toward her original vector. One at each of the Aetiline's feet and the third at its stomach. These are not fully charged kill shots; they cannot even pierce Solarel's reduced armor. They will stun if they connect, but what is the meaning of this? Last second nerves? Improvisation? Does she not trust this glued together piece of crap death stick she nevertheless insisted on bringing to the most important fight of her life?

"In! The value!"

Again, the same charge. No alterations in her form, just the difference in implied threat caused by her previous feint. Her mecha's grip on its weapon is tighter than ever, and it pulls the blade back in such a way as to fully commit to a slash this time. The expenditure of energy is such that simple physics will commit a real strike from her even if she decides to be a coward with her Tails again. But like a stubborn fool, she pivots again before the edge of her sword can be brought to bear. Even earlier, in fact, because this time she fears an anticipatory lunge.

"Of your voice!"

This time Mira spins where she is in the air in a circle. She hurls her sword at mach speeds as a projectile. The kinetic force is equal to a railgun, only prevented from piercing by the ablative weights all over the blade. Several of them snap and crumble as they fly everywhere in the form of dense shrapnel while Mira's sword goes twisting and bouncing across the arena toward the nearby forest. A glint of something like diamond can be seen just before it rolls, for the moment, out of sight.

> by the way.
> the word Technology does not refer to the construction of new machines or engineering.
> rather the same glyph expresses the application of various concepts in novel ways.
> to use another term for it:
> Creativity.

Two Tails fly out from behind their hiding spots on the Gods-Smiting Whip's back. Mira catches both of them with her hands. Bright blue energy pulsates between them in the jagged, vaguely hexagonal patterned light that denotes her supposed 'Third Form', the technique that guides shielding and barrier adjacent concepts.

She swings the first Tail in front of her, and the other one follows as it is pulled along violently by the connective shielding. She swings again and again, twirling them in front of her chest in crossing patterns that occasionally see her complete a behind the back pass to the other side of her body to continue the momentum. She snaps both Tails together and stands in what anime has taught her is a decisive battle pose, holding this new mysterious weapon in a manner that is half shield and half sword.

"You. You, You are the one who taught me that. Twice over. It is time I repay the lesson. Starting with this: Moonlight Silver Kiss."

Breathless Dead

Damn these blankets. The warmth that seeps into her bones, the softness tickles her fur and skin with every little breath she takes, the way they have been arranged into a safe little nest that is impossible to escape from. They steal her strength. They demand she rest. They even smell correct: the exact softeners, cleaning agents, and perfumes that she used to use back when this was her job.

Bella groans as she drags herself out of the cocoon the Princess had wove for her. It isn't right. Home is ahead of her now, not behind.

"This isn't over, Mynx..."

*********

"Seawater?"

Bella squeezes her temple. Memories tangle themselves into knots that pull on her head with the same painful squeezing as matted hair against her scalp. What is hers? What is Mosaic's? She shakes her head, and sniffs away her own stupid question. In the time it takes her to recover the maid girl has already run off before she can be told not to bother.

She stiffens at the brush of the hand against her arm. But she does not flinch away.

"...I'll have to teach you some other time about proper vintages. But it's old, old knowledge and we don't have any time for that. No time for anything really. I'll give you a toast, but after that I--"

The hand pulls away. Bella's arm falls to her side, and her jacket flops open. She stares into the hurt, almost reproachful look on the Ceronian girl's face and the wagging tail that has since fallen still and silent. She glares at Ember, trying to crush her with nothing but the force that emanates from her eyes. But there are more memories in the shock and the hurt, and they pull on Bella's shoulders like chains.

"Ember for the love of fuck, do you not understand how much danger we're in? This stupid rustbucket is older than the Azure Skies! It is huge and it can go anywhere but it is falling to fucking pieces from the inside and who do we have to keep it stuck together? Nobody! There is never a night off, don't you get it? If I'm not organizing everything and keeping us afloat, we die. I don't know if we implode in an asteroid cluster or get eaten by a leviathan or just plain got by the wounded super empire we've gone and pissed off but whatever catches us first will kill us in an instant! And after I killed the Crystal Knight in a hunt I'm not exactly eager to find out what Demeter'll do to my body when she gets it. Just... fuck! You're always like this! It's all excitement and adventure to you but you never once stop and think about--"

Bella's eyes open wide. Her mouth falls open in shock. Her arm shoots out and she just manages to catch Ember by the wrist in time to keep her from dashing off. Her grip is iron, but the pressure of her thumb against that slender wrist is as tender as she knows how to let it be. Her head droops as her shoulder slump forward. This sting in her chest is going to kill her. This shame. That's not Redana, you dipshit.

"No. I'm... I'm sorry," her voice is made soft and soothing by the pressure of her guilt, "Fuck. I've been dreaming for five years, it never occurred to me that I'd also need to rest. But you're right. If I break I can't hold anyone up. Vesper is counting on me. And Belja- I mean, and Gemini, and Taurus too after I made her all those promises. And Quajl and all of Beri and even Princess Redana, though she doesn't know it yet. And you, obviously. You... kept your promise. You came back. You even brought me a... nnnngh, maid. I'll reward that. I have to. Ok then. One night, with wine and fireworks and just the two of us. Make it count."

The glare is back again. But this time, Bella puts just enough smirk to it that she stops seeming cruel. The stubborn, invincible aura of Mosaic is fucking exhausting to maintain, but it's what honor and a mountain of corpses and mistakes under her feet demand. Just one night. Please let it be enough.