Phoe

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Nobody is born a king. However short or straight their path to the crown there are always steps that must be walked first before they can wear it. It had been a king that Diaofei had called to, and it had been a king that she needed. But it was not a king that she wanted, and it was not a king that could mete vengeance the way the situation demanded.

The links on Saber's mail coat groan and snap from the inside out at the insistence of some unseen pressure. She walks her steps backwards now, to the time when her father had been murdered and she sailed with her brothers across the sea not to enrich themselves (not just that), but to choke the rivers of England with the blood of their damned. She did not don her armor until she wore the crown. She had no need of it when it pinched against her rough and spiny skin and got in the way of proper motion.

A king required armor because a king must fill her men's hearts with devotion and confidence. She had a duty to impress, and so she had. But before that, when there was no crown upon her head, her family had better uses for her misshapen body. It was the Great King's command that she wear no covering from her waist at any moment when a battle could be expected or a march was called for. It would have obstructed her true duty.

The armor crumbles from her body like a shed carapace. Underneath it was a wall of flesh, breasts mounted proudly atop iron, sinewy, stretched out muscle. Hard power and an unyielding body built long instead of wide, with every last centimeter of her flesh covered in intricate, jagged runes: crossing diamonds and instructions written in spirals in the language of her people. For in life, Saber was a living map. It had been allowed of her that she could join in the thrill of battle for herself, because any idiot could see that she was a match for any man alive. But her true duty had been the role of the Valkyrie for those not yet dead. The guide that led the armies of Ragnar Lodbrok to destiny and deeds worthy of admission to the halls beyond the gate of death.

Saber's smile is truly hideous. Her laughter is the insane barking of the aggrieved hunter finally confronted with the beast they've been chasing. Yapping Master and dragon still pinned atop her shoulders, she leaps toward the figures in shadow with speed and zeal that surpasses simple recklessness. The idea that she could fail in a scrap with mere assassins simply does not occur to her. If they shoot a bolt she will dodge it. If she cannot, she will survive it. If her Master dies she will simply find a way to continue existing without her. In this moment everything is about blood.

Her runes shine like beacons as she pounces, and the shadows still consuming her body leap off of her skin at their guidance. The vague shape of men, great brutish beasts of men both smaller than her and much more stockily built, constructed half of light and half of darkness take shape to either side of her, swinging grand swords shaped for cutting mountains about like they were toys.

"Our mighty father lies dead," she intones, "Brothers! We go now to war!"

This is the first of her noble phantasms. She invokes it without consideration of the cost. Together they descend like a pack of wolves, gnashing and tearing shadows to bloody bits without a thought toward decorum, safety, or self gain. All is vengeance. That was the privilege of the uncrowned.

Breathless Dead

"I apologize. That is, uh, I'm sorry," Bella's tongue is sandpaper and ash, "Your first, mmmmf. Sorry. Your first request is something I can't do. I mean I must respectfully decline."

Her voice sounds even farther away than the uncrowned king and their entourage. Like she has to push it through a wad of cotton to start with, only for it to drop on the air in leaden bubbles. Breathing is, somehow, worse. The sensation of heat entering her lungs is nauseating. Hot in, hot out, her own breath feels sticky before she can even exhale. The smell makes it worse; each little sniff loses more and more of what makes the planet seem alive to her and replaces it with the pungent tang of her own misery. Bella's own sweat is a particularly miserable cocktail that triggers her same maid's aversion to blood.

She has to fight to keep her hand from clenching over her mouth. That would be unseemly, conduct unbecoming of a praetor. It wouldn't even help what with the smell coming from her own body: her hand would just press it further into her. She grits her teeth, invisibly, and sways on the spot instead. She must not wobble. She must not raise a hand to steady herself. She keeps both hands tucked demurely in front of her in her least aggressive posture, and carries the weight of an empire on her back as she burns.

"Please understand," her voice is not only distant now, but weak, "I'm not trying to waste your time. It's not that I don't trust you, either. But communication isn't possible at a distance. And the crossing... would kill you. Please just. Trust me."

Bella tries to swallow, but her mouth is so parched the gesture simply catches on the back of her throat instead and she has to turn her head to hide the sudden retching as a more mundane cough. It's not pride at this point, the standing on ceremony for a delegation she can't even see in detail through all the haze in the air anymore. It's simply decorum. Before she was a praetor she was a maid, and ahead of any other duties they may have stapled onto her her first and most sacred would always be to the comfort and ease of guests before herself. It was the lesson beaten into her most sharply as a little girl, the lessons begun before she'd even finished learning how to speak.

She does not ask for a drink. Her body begs her to, but she ignores it. Is this... punishment? Is this scalding heat mere divine displeasure, or was the sickness of the sun her special torment in death for all the many harms she'd caused before she'd been so unceremoniously snuffed out? Fuck. You could have simply left her on the Yakanov, Lord Apollo, if this was really what you wanted for her. She dips into a curtsy rather than another bow, because letting her knees obey the siren call of gravity seems easier all of a sudden. She just has to. She just has to.. She just has to...

"M-my name's... Bella. I didn't come to make trouble. Please. I want-- I nnnnnneed, sssshhhhhhttttthhhggt!"

It is not enough. The power of the Empire is not enough. The precision of her training is not enough. Bella's ears droop flat on her head and her tail flags low against the ground. Her posture is terrible. Her body is sweat soaked, plastered fur and white fabrics so drenched they have become invisible, clinging highlights to every imaginable mystery of her physique. Her mouth glistens with the fresh purge of her own misery as her legs threaten to topple her down to the ground to wallow in it. Beljani, is this what your cage felt like? When you burned your way into the minds of so many around you, did it feel like this? When they forced you on the bed and stuffed you till you couldn't help but feel aware of every crevice of your body, did that feel like this? How did you stand it?

Sister. Where did you go, Sister? Why can't she see you again? Why can't she, oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods she can't take this. Please. Make it stop, make it stop! What did she do? She's sorry! She's sorry! Please, just! A drink, a fan, a bit of shade, anything! Just don't trap her like this! Don't keep her like this! Don't...

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Oh enough!"

The amount of information disparity in this war bordered on a joke. In her own day it was simple: you boarded a ship, sailed to a new coast, and attacked the nearest settlement from the sea. No one ever saw it coming. And if they did you simply circled around behind them on land and killed them then. It was possible, even easy, to run down huge swaths of a kingdom in a single raid despite whatever nation you were invading having far more soldiers than you ever could. All it took was a willingness to fight when others wouldn't, and even more than that a willingness to run until you were where they weren't.

But this? Absurd! Her own father would quiver at the prospect of this war. All of the great heroes that had been summoned were already in alignment against her before she'd even been allowed to show up! The strongest last, that was the rule of the ritual, but even still how could they have organized this much? Eyes everywhere, watching them. An utter impossibility. Her every move known before she even settles on making it. One trap closes around her and it launches a second and a third by triggering as if the whole thing were some overdesigned machine with no purpose other than the death of the Saber class Servant. Who had ever heard of such a hollow mockery of a war? Was that simply how things were done these days?

Her own 'allies' were either sniveling or naive beyond the point of uselessness. There was no more time to let them debate the particulars of how many among them were marked for death. Saber catches Diaofei under the butt with her boot and flips her up into the air, leaping just enough to catch her on top of the dragon she is already carrying. There is no time to drop either of them. She lands, and her legs bow under the combined weight. But she holds. She is strong enough to move, and quickly.

Her first step is toward the Kun shrine, but a tug from the shadows crawling across her body makes her flinch. In that instant the great vehicle is snapped in half under Archer's artillery barrage. She pivots, and sprints away from both shrines instead. Toward the unknown. Doubtless, toward the next part of the trap. Irrelevant. She cannot die until she kills Actia.

"If either of you lets go," she snarls, "I'll kill you on the spot. You will wish this rain fell on you instead."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It is written that Hybrasil was birthed by Grandmother Night. And so in the beginning she was a place of darkness who would permit no light but the distant stars in the sky. Even the moons did not hang in the sky until Alarea the Usurper plucked them from the neck of Grandmother Night while she slept and dropped them there when she tried to escape the night's fury. And in this home of shadows and starlight it is little wonder that the first Children of Hybrasil beheld almost nothing in the way of color.

It was in the Rising Age of Goddesses, when the Children of Hybrasil feasted raw and bloody on the great creatures of their world (and on each other when they could not get them) in service to chasing the title of Bride for themselves and teasing dowry gifts from each new Goddess that arose from chaos that Hybrasil finally became a place of paints and artistry. One by one were the colors sealed inside of names, and being able to hold them in their hands at last the Children of Hybrasil learned their nature and witnessed the truth of each for themselves.

First came [Yellow], with [Blue] following only breaths apart. After many long years were [White] and [Black], and long after that came [Brown] and [Green] and [Violet]. So it went, and so it went, and so it went. And as the years passed the number of new Goddesses ran out, and their gifts became less frequent, and the Children of Hybrasil were forced more and more to use their gifts to make a Goddess out of themselves. That is to say, a truly lifted and perfected species was asked to prove it deserved all of its favors and the beauty that had been shared with it, and the Age of Burden came closing in around it.

But in that time there was a single color that remained unbound and invisible, refusing to stay trapped within any of the other hues the Children of Hybrasil tried to use on it. It was the color of the blood that ran inside their bodies and the fires that cooked their meals. The very last gift, from Little Sister Fire, was [Red]. But when the name was given the air was heavy with sorrow and only one word hung on the lips of everyone who could speak: "Farewell".

The nature of the Star Story, of theology, and the universe itself is hotly contested among scholars and those among all walks of life, today. But there is one thing which is known to be true: once upon a time, Hybrasil rang out with the commands of a thousand different Goddesses. It is known. And now, only the innermost members of the various cults can even claim to hear vague whispers from the forces that once directed all of reality.

So it was that red came to be known to the Children of Hybrasil. And so too in the same breath did it become [The Color of Parting].

Mirror's dress is the deepest, brightest shade of red that she could manage. A comfortable meshweave leotard with wide shoulder straps and attached ribbons that dangle down overtop of her arms clings tightly to her body, bound across both hips by a pair of crossing diving belts studded with meticulously shaped rectangle onyx weights. Woven into the suit is a skirt that opens in the front but gathers in layers starting at her waist that pull taut down toward her knees and suddenly flare out as they approach her feet and pool behind her on the floor, fanning out around behind her like the tail of some enormous fish. No other adornments, face unpainted, spots unadjusted. Her hair worn in a simple flat curtain. It was all she could think of when she found out she was expected to attend the after party.

True to her fashions, it has been a night of partings. A kiss on the back of the hand and a wordless, wave goodbye to Valentina de Alcard. An intense staredown with Maelia Dala that ended in laughter and a high five when neither one of them had proven nervy enough to call the other one out for playing with a multi-drive setup during the tournament. A cup of tea shared with Adriana Teresio, a much harder shot of liquor shared with Ada Smith, along with the promise of more work soon from both of them. A long hug from Kiriala, who was being called away but promised to visit to continue her education whenever she could. An entire evening spent weaving through crowds to get away from Heim Stockar, more insistent than ever that she at least consider joining his Hold. For some reason, a muffin from Marcina Villajero; she carefully sniffed it for traces of cinnamon.

On and on it went. Masks of happiness, masks of energy, masks of fond farewells and gratitude, all worn with increasing desperation as the noise from the room built up inside her skull until she was finally forced to excuse herself and step beyond the celebration into the relative quiet of the night air.

And Slate.

"Am I too late, Boss? 'Cause I was hoping to talk shop tonight but if you're burned out already I guess I've gotta wait. You really aren't getting any younger, huh?"

Mirror said nothing. Her eyes were on the sky alone, where hidden behind the city lights the pathways of the stars opened up to the future she was ready to escape to. Three steps further out into the street. A swish of the tail. Slate's hand catches her around the wrist.

"Boss. Come on, Boss. Need you here in front of me right now."

"I thought I fired you."

"Oh, you wish. You think this is over Boss? The fucking Aeteline lived through an attack that vaporized my Whip and I'm supposed to, what? Retire to a life of weaving?"

"Oh? Did the mighty Selin Makers finally get a taste of defeat inside of victory?"

"F-f-first of all," said Slate through a deep flush of color through her fur, "Don't use that name. Not out here. Please. Second of all, screw you! You've got the nerve to declare yourself a winner when you dropped the ball that hard?"

"Oh yes, what was I thinking, executing the plan we came up with together to the letter?"

"Shut up! If you did it right I'd still have a pilot to manage and a mecha to maintain! This partial victory crap is gonna ruin the whole 'having my own planet' thing before I even move in!"

Mirror laughs, though she does not mean to. An undignified guffaw that has her leaning against a building just to avoid tumbling over onto the pavement and scraping up her beautiful Dress of Goodbyes. She reaches forward to put a clawtip on Slate's lips before she can protest further.

"You're right. Of course. It's not so bad bringing some of the old stuff over with us. You and I, and Solarel... we wouldn't be able to help it, anyway. Another reason I needed to bid farewell to the rest, I suppose."

"You understand you're not actually getting rid of anybody this time, right? They all know where you live now."

"Maybe so. But distance will carry them away just the same. The pace of their lives will carry them apart and away. Visits, calls, these will be frequent enough for I told you sos to start, but they will fade to nothing and quickly, now that our commonality is shattered. The threads of fate are thin indeed, Slate."

"...Goddess. It messes me up something crazy when you say stuff like that in a tone of voice like you're the happiest you've ever been. This really counts as a happy ending? Disappearing into darkness while everybody else watches us through a Far-lense?"

"It's happy enough for me," Mirror says through a queer smile, "Just leave it. You wanted to talk shop? That sounds like a fun way to recharge."

"Mm....hm. Well, uh, sure. So I guess, the Gods-Smiting Whip really turned out like a mobile artillery platform, right? We were able to, y'know, do The Thing because we were able to use your ah, needs to create separation. But I think that limited you a bit as a pilot, because on a certain level you just couldn't direct the Tails with enough finite control to do what you needed while also maneuvering the main body out of danger. Or into it, for that matter. We gave up a lot of easy kill shots going for these weird technical plays, if you follow."

"You think we hit the limits of Nine Drive, then?"

Slate nods. "Yeah, I do. I think the next evolution that's really gonna push you forward as a pilot (and me along with you) is a tighter focus on the body. Something more reflexive and responsive. I want to take advantage of your 'shattered limb style' and build you a frame with much greater articulation along the whole thing. I'll build it for speed this time, and I mean real speed, like, you've never moved this fast in your life kinda speed. We can even deploy a modular limb system for greater adaptability since you won't really need hands for holding stuff and you don't need to wrap your head around holding stuff that's not there..."

"Th-the problem with, with that's, uh," came a small, deeply out of breath voice from around a dark corner, "The, uh, phew. Wow. The... haaaaa, l-limitations of the, uh, the pilot."

"Matty?"
"...Matty."

The hybrid cat dragged herself over to the pair, burdened by half a dozen suitcases and the galaxy's largest, heaviest, and most overstuffed backpack crammed full of every essential a silly kitten could ever need to go on an adventure. The total weight seemed like it could crack a moon in half, and it was certainly doing a number on her spine. Slate rushed over to relieve her of some of the burden, but Mirror stood frozen in place.

"S-so if we wanna make a mecha like that for Mommy-- I mean Mira-eep! M-M-Mirror! Th-then we need, aahhhhhhh, we need to build her a proper flight suit to go with it. The Chains of Power system helped her by creating artificial limiters that helped her mind not get stuck on stuff, and this'd be like that but for her body. As she warmed up we could have it slowly activate and stabilize bigger g-forces, enhance reflex speed, there's really no end to how high we could lift her if we built the suit and the mecha with the same design in mind. I think it's really interesting!"

"Sweetie, that's-- I mean, that's a really interesting idea but. Have you thought this through? I mean, think about the life you have for yourself here! What are you..?"

"Matty. You were. You. Are."

"Y-You don't... want me?"

"I," Mirror's tongue clicks in disgust. Her fish-tail dress swims up and down the sidewalk in motion that is trying to rush toward and away at the same moment, "It is. Not about. What I. Want. Your. Apprenticeship. I. We. Cannot give you. Opportunity. Like that."

"You deserve the best life you can possibly have, Matty. Boss and I are about to be roughing it for a good long while, and even beyond that we're probably going to be under constant threat of pirate attacks and who knows what else. You've got something amazing with Trosta. You and she were able to perfect a system I spent a three years on without cracking. You don't wanna walk away from your life here just like that, do you?"

"The..." Matty's voice is choked by tears now, "The threads of fate are thin!"

"Huh?"

"I, I, I, I heard you! You think we're all gonna forget you! And I don't wanna! I, I talked to Trosta already and she said I graduated! I'm a master now and you can't tell me what to do!"

"...Kitten. I."

Matty flings herself against Mirror in a crushing hug. The sweetness of the gesture is undercut by about a hundred kilos of hard, heavy gear swinging around her arms and clapping Mirror in the back and the ribs, but the pilot digs her heels in and weathers it with just a small grunt. Her hands find Matty's hair and stroke it softly.

"All my life! All my life nobody knew what to do with me! I tried smiling and I did what everybody said and it never ever ever worked! They just let me go and let me go and let me go! But I found you! Workin with you's the first time I ever felt wanted! I don't wanna be forgotten! I don't wanna forget! I wanna! I wanna be! I!"

Slate shares a look with Mirror from overtop of Matty's head. The wry grin of motherhood, chagrin mixed with pride. Mirror softly strokes Matty's neck until she has to be held to stay on her feet. Until sobs turn to sniffles turn into desperate, shaky giggles and nuzzles against the mesh pattern on Mirror's chest.

"Foolish. I am. For thinking. I could manage. Without my sunspot."

"Hehe, that's right. We're a family! And family's not blood! It's love and belongin and always stayin together no matter what! That's right, right? That's us, right? I found you? I-it's... real. Right?"

Mirror tilts her head toward the sky again in silence. Tears moisten her always watery eyes and bead against her fur until they roll down her neck. She presses Matty's head deeper into her chest in answer. Slate, unseen by either of them, shakes her head and presses herself against the pair of them.

"It's real, sweetie. You and me and Mira, and now combat slu-- uh. I mean. The scary dragon lady too."

"We are... strange."

"That's fine," Matty chokes on tears and laughter in equal measure, "We'll all be weird together!"

The Age of Burden had ended eventually, too. The voices of the divine sang for those with ears to listen. A new goddess had even manifest herself onto the same plane of reality as the Children of Hybrasil. Everything was changing, all over again. The ashes of old dreams and old worlds scattered on the solar winds, to coalesce somewhere now. Red, the color of parting. Was it the wrong choice after all?

Not at all. Because after goodbye... after goodbye, comes the next hello.

Breathless Dead

Ah, fuck.

That's what you get for taking your eyes off the battlefield, Bella. What, was it not exciting enough for you? It didn't involve you because you promised yourself you wouldn't rip anybody in half this time? Well good job you moron. Now you're dead. You know, again. Your mother would be so proud.

She lifts the hood off of her face to expose her eyes and ears to the light once again. What was the point of concealing her nature from people who might have lifted themselves up enough to become her betters? Not to mention they were just as dead as she is; she might not have any idea what the fuck just happened but it didn't take a genius to understand what a sudden burst of light and heat followed by a total alteration of your surroundings actually worked out to. So off it goes. Her ears stretch luxuriously in the open air, and the crown of the Imperial Regalia glitters on her head in the reflected light of the Portuguese spires.

She takes a breath, and it is full of life. Ironic, but there it is. The whole place tastes of desperation, but not misery. The vibrant pop of flowers, of heavy metals, and the heat of noses almost as inquisitive as hers are all around her. The fact that this place felt alive to her for the first time just wrapped the sensation tighter around her neck: that this place was a dead end. An impossibility under the true direction of the gods that strove with every waking moment to deny that fact.

"Administrator species?"

Bella blinks. Her tail twitches in obvious discomfort. Why do they know that term? Were Servitors just an inevitability? Which god had written that into law? Why did, what-- nnffff.

Before too much surprise and alarm can register on her face, she dips into a low and careful bow. Right hand pressed tight against her chest, left swept far out to her side with her claws held carefully toward the ground. She dips low enough that her luxurious blue-black hair brushes across the ground underneath her. Her tail lifts above her back and holds as still and as graceful as she kept it back when she was a kitten trying (and failing) to get adopted by some aristocrat family somewhere.

"I'm sorry," she says, still in the bow, "But I can't do that. My Empress forbids her citizens from travel. In her wisdom she... believes it's for the betterment of the galaxy as a whole. At least I-- that's how I see her. But I'm alone. They didn't send anyone else with me for my mission. I was told I... was enough."

Bella lifts herself back up again, as if on the power of those words. Her chest puffs out with old pride. Imperial pride. She casts her eyes once more over the people here in front of her, and the trappings of their perfected civilization behind them. She wanted to learn, and here was her chance. What did they look like? What did they smell like? What had food come to mean for them, and art? What made them bring weapons here, and what did they consider deadly enough to turn on her as she popped in out of nowhere? If the truth of the Portuguese had been the mud-soaked crapsack of vaguely industrialized misery, what kind of creature had been struggling to be born underneath it?

"Be at ease. Before I left, Her Imperial Majesty Empress Nero IV Acontecimento Azurius conferred upon me the title of Praetor. My ears listen on her behalf, and my voice carries her authority to the far ends of space. Say whatever you'd like to say to me. In the end it'll be the same as saying it to the Throne."

A lifetime's worth of practice keeps her face inoffensively neutral while she is turned toward the delegation in front of her. But the tip of her finger twitches, and with it the corner of her mouth lifts an imperceptible fraction on the right side. Her maids' version of a smirk. If she'd already been killed, what harm was there in playing at her oldest dreams one last time?

Have you forgotten her, Your Highness? The Praetor you commissioned will keep your banner aloft, however long her arms can stand to hold it.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Worthless," Saber spits, digging her knee deeper into the dragon's neck out of spite, "Not her."

With a final twist, she rises to her feet again. It's not mercy that stays her blade; it's just a pointless waste of resources. Spilling the dragon's blood won't bring her prey here if the total destruction of her mana source hadn't shifted the needle. Even the appearance of a very convenient dragon shaped juice box hadn't drawn out a whisper of threat in the air.

She makes no effort to conceal her height now, compared with before. The bestial aspects that colored her movement have all been replaced by a restless energy that needs to position her above the ground for maximum leverage, reach, and destructive potential at all moments. No longer sure of when she'll need it, she simply looms over everything with her face half cloaked in shadows that drip down her shoulders and over her back.

She slams her sword back into its scabbard with a huff. Restless boredom settles across her features. A job well started, if Master could be believed that this obscene, haphazard edifice was of any importance to Actia, then destroying it served its own purpose beyond simply drawing her out. It was to be expected that the Trickster would be better prepared to play the long game than the victim. Vermin always retreat to their nest; the English to their castles. It worked out the same in the end. Burn enough, and they'd come out.

With a sudden surge of motion, Saber bends down and plucks Opalis off the ground, slinging her over her shoulders like a heavy sack in spite of the size of the dragon. No majestic figure, this. The true shape of a dragon was a piece of luggage. A battery, more like.

"Plunder has no need to speak," she says as she clamps her arms down on Opalis' back, "And even less need to negotiate. You know Master, warriors who bathe in dragon's blood are said to be conferred with numerous blessings. It's by far the most convenient way to restore your mana and bring Actia to justice. Or do you take pleasure in doing things the hard way? I can respect that. We can simply use this as a hostage instead. With its servant as an informant we could move much more quickly toward our goals."

The blue has melted fully from her eyes now, which gleam like amber lanterns in the shadows that continue to bubble up and down around her neck and face. The rattle of her mail suggests it fits her less well than it had at the moment of her summoning. But all Saber does is stand there, waiting. Her serpent-like arms bind the dragon tight across her shoulders, while her posture is so bored she seems like she could fall asleep at any moment without anything to stimulate her.

"I have my preferences, of course. But I really don't care what we do so long as I get my hands on her in the end. That is all that matters. Thanks to you."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"I wished for a planet."

Mira's eyes do not glitter, and her ears do not flex. There is no little twitch in her whiskers, and her tail remains elegantly straight, and uncurled. No mirth has seeped into her voice. She wraps her fingers around Solarel's wrists and guides her hands up her bare hips, to put them to work against her fur where it meets the train that is all that is left on her of her original outfit.

A kiss, once. Soft and quick. A kiss, twice. Gentle and only on the lips. A kiss, three times. Gentle and loving but without heat.

There is no humor in this moment. No playfulness. No joke. Her eyes flick away and find the ground. Guilt. Inadequacy. They lift again. Stubbornness. Determination.

"Newly constructed. At the edge of the known frontier. My demand was for all three great civilizations to take part in its creation. The labor is important. The effort. The... cost. I want it to hurt them. I want it to teach them. This," she raises Solarel's arm with her own to gesture to the warped space around them, "My monument to destruction. Death of the Tournament. That..."

She dual-gestures again, this time toward the sky where the stars watch down on them from their hiding places.

"My monument to creation. Birth of home. It will take a very, very long time to finish. But as soon as it is livable, I will be there. I will draw battle to myself, and I will rest, and I will build, and I will sew, and I will learn, and I will watch the stars. And I will leave. And I will return. Every time. At long last. There will be. A place. To find me."

A fourth kiss. Warmer, hotter, the absence of breath. The briefest scrape of a tongue. A deep, deafening purr that crawls up one throat and down another. And then, a parting.

"Until it is finished. Until it is perfect. Until it is my ultimate proof of what we all may do together, when our passions combine and the isolating forces that drive us to desperate, pointless yearning are as conquered as I can manage in the limits of my power. When my Home is finished growing, then I..."

A quiet smile. Eyes as deep as rivers, glittering with the scales of a thousand imagined fish.

"I will step away, one last time. When that day comes I will leave, and not be seen again by anyone who knows my name. I will step onto the hidden pathways and I will allow myself to return to stardust. On that day. I would bid you come with me."

That's it, then. Mira's wish is nothing more and nothing less than her entire life, lived as fully as she can make it. Not endless battle, but endless possibility. And at the end of possibility?

Peace.

Breathless Dead

...Fine.

If that's how it is, fine. Everything was pointless from the beginning. That's just what she got for hardly ever praying. Of course a Ceronian pack would augur them. She should have seen the ambush coming before she'd even come out of her first restaurant. Fuck, she should have seen it coming before she made planetfall. That'll be the plovers gone for sure, then. Bunch of assholes.

Fine. Whatever, fine. All she'd wanted to do is see a fucking museum. It was a stupid idea in the first place, wanting to learn enough to make her own conclusions about a people she still intended to abandon to their own horrible deaths. Better not to know. Then she could sit inside a star and cook herself stupid lamenting the color vision shrimps like a normal person. Too late now; the Star Kings were simply too far ahead of her.

The air has turned sharp enough to sting her nose, as if it sensed a storm and had begun to fill with electricity and anticipation of rain. Bella snorts, and reaches over to pluck a sword from out of a nearby Silver Diver's (don't ask her which one) bandoleer. She twists it in her hand, and watches the crowd of psuedowolves pack ever closer without quite coming in range. She can taste the saccharine bite of excitement dripping off the lot of them, but underneath it are the familiar sour notes of nerves and even a bit of deeper vinegar soaked fears.

Bella smiles.

"Figures."

She lifts the claw on her right index finger and presses it down on the blade. She glances up with an air of casual disinterest and shrugs at nothing in particular. A handful of her sharpest companions catch the hint and their ears flatten slightly as they dull their senses in anticipation of a noise they absolutely do not want to hear. She watches the response roll through the pack in a small wave.

"Feeling good about having ears and eyes now, guys? Wonder how well they trained you after they finished jabbing you with the needle."

There are noises you can create only if you have a proper understanding of the materials in front of you. To read the molecular structure and see the pattern in your head of exactly what types of pressure and what amount of damage will create specific levels of friction and breakdown, and how to elongate the moment of contact precisely to cause maximum pain. It's a form of torture Bella knows well.

She slides her claw along the tang of the blade. Up and down in soft, loving strokes. The sound the shivering metal makes is a death wail that no living thing should ever have to hear. A keening tinnitus that slips above the range of the unenlightened and into frequencies that only proper ears can channel. It's a vibration that can be felt in the skull. A headache so insistent it erases the memory of ever not hurting. After that comes the scream. It shatters glass. Bella's own ears trickle blood.

She snaps the sword in half, and tosses it on the ground. Her back stays turned to the tower. This will not be the worst of it for any who have come here to revel in their sense of artificial purpose and their newfound sense of invincibility. That will happen when Ember's pack begin smashing shields and shining lights brighter than the star above this planet. It'll bring the first circle to their knees, and that's if they're lucky.

After that? Well, whatever. It's really none of her business. She told herself she wouldn't fight down here on this world of wet paper. If the children wanted to throw themselves at her, she'd deal with it. But until then it's not her fucking problem. She closes her eyes, and feels the response in the pavement beneath her instead.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Silence. For once, the same as peace. Tranquility as deep as the light of a distant nebula, visible for half a night and from a single planet if one happened to be sleepless and wise enough to tilt their head toward the stars, perchance to see something they might share with company they had not intended to keep.

...Khhh. Mira hisses softly, and clicks her tongue against her teeth. As a final gift it lacked, mmmmnnnn, finesse? She'd thought the result would have been more explosive. More color. Or less. Or. Well. Different. Simply... different. This was the problem in chasing too many fish at once. An ultimate attack is not usually an art project for a reason. Too many sub-goals increases the risk of tainting the final result.

Her train flutters delicately behind her as she descends from the top of the wreckage with the careless, hopping grace of a, well, of a cat. She is unhurried and unbothered in the moment, taking the lines that seem the most fun or that create the most beautiful motions in her mind, but always and without stopping bringing her closer to the ground. Closer to Solarel.

In terms of impact she could not say she was disappointed. They would fear this spot for years. They'd study it for years after that. Picking through the pieces, sorting through the implications, and (she hoped) simply marveling at its strange beauty. Art was always more her talent than science. What she'd learned was only ever to better chase a vision. What mattered was that this couldn't be forgotten. And though it might get covered up, it wouldn't be ignored.

The Kiss of the Comet. Her fangs against the throats of Empires. Secret and yet deep enough to bleed, she thinks. No, it's not bad at all. And watching the world decide to fall apart, and then to fall un-apart was not bad for visual impact. She'd done better with dresses in the main. But still. Good. It looked good. Felt good. It was only disappointing because she could not get her choice of monuments in place.

Hop hop hop, descent, descent, descent. Mira traipses down the arm of the Aeteline as a maiden cloaked in moonlight crosses a flight of stairs. Beneath her, her ballroom. Beneath her, her destiny. Beneath her, her reward. She is close enough now to see the look on her lover's face. Her liquid eyes alight at every little tick of wonder, of happiness, and of relief. Silence. Even now, silence. Her paws make no noise on the shattered metal as she crosses the smoldering mecha down to the site of the final moment of the final battle. It was silence, the same as peace.

...In the end, optimal. Optimal outcome. Absolute and inarguable. It would not be hard at all to guess at what went on here, but the Nine Drive System had detonated before its final secrets could be made public. Without even a shred of hard evidence, investigators would be forced to conclude that this could be the result of Tail Nine coming into contact with the Aeteline's own crystal fire drive, and the confluence of those energies would be marked as the cause of this bizarre moment. And as long as that stayed plausible it would be enough. Someone would eventually make the argument just to dodge more questions about how someone like Mira of the Fisher Clan managed to walk something as dangerous as the Ninetails straight through every check and regulation all the way to the finals of the galaxy's most important peacekeeping event.

But still. If she could have chosen. She would have preferred to leave something of her Gods-Smiting Whip behind. A quiet skeleton wrapped around its quaint controls, forever still. Proof that she had flown, and how. Proof of the love that had carried her through the stars. It was not to be. The price of channeling all of that power directly was that Slate's masterpiece have disintegrated where the terrifying God of the Imperial Court had merely died. And without even that much, the Whispered Promise was no longer even a pilot.

"Ha. Do you hear that, Slate? You're fired."

Her sarcastic laughter is the first music of the scene. The first act that dares to break the silence. But this is also peace. Mira's feet touch the ground at last. She stands side by side with Solarel. And then, front to front. Together they complete her final dress again. Arms at each others backs, the warmth of their bodies seeping into one another.

They kiss as anime teaches us that all princesses should kiss: in the soft light of the dawn that represents their triumph over evil. With grace and softness that pulls their lips into one another's, and then apart, but only to taste new flavors on new horizons across each other's softness. It is the kiss that sheathes swords at last, and dares to look for a place on the mantle to hang them up until one day adventure calls and they are needed again. It is the kiss that promises to stay. It is the kiss that carries the excitement of the word 'Tomorrow'.

"This." says Mira in a breathy voice that radiates contentment, "This is my victory. The first of this entire tournament."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

That naive? This world created Diaofei. This world hurt her. This world had thrown a trickster at her wearing the guise of the Allfather within minutes of setting foot outside, and then proceeded to rain stones upon her head endlessly while fencing her in with castle walls and English knights. And this world still had magic enough for dragons. Whatever softness might reign in the world of rebirth, it is most certainly not naive. What a stupid thought. She should strike her own head from her shoulders for the audacity of even pondering that question.

Not that it matters. The question of trap or ambush is utterly irrelevant next to the only question that matters: is this her? Is this Actia? All she knows about her prey is that she should come when the shrine burns. The shrine is burning. She has come. Is this her?!

It is the pursuit of that truth that pulls Saber out of the flames. She is on the dragon in a second. A boot to the head rather than her blade through that command seal painted throat. Even a smaller dragon such as this one would be unlikely to die straight away from a single wound, and its materialized servant would have more than ample time to strike a counterblow while she was committed. It would simply take too long to wrench the blade free, and without a spare weapon that was an unacceptable loss.

Bait out the ambush, and then crush it. In the meantime a warrior of her stature would be laughed out of her own halls for fearing a dragon she could plausibly mount and ride under better circumstances. Let it roar, let it fight! And while it struggles against the iron of her knee pinning its shoulder against the ground, let it also answer!

"Give me your name, little wyrm. This war is not yours to win."

She presses her weight down harder into the ground, rotating her shoulder up as she sinks to get a better angle on the arc that would crush the inevitable counterattack. Shadows seep into the floor where they fleck off of her dark cloak. In the icy depths of her eyes, motes of molten gold begin to pool and glitter, as if they'd melted off her treasures and seeped into her soul.