Tatterdemalion

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile!

It's the hair that does it. Jerioth sits up (a motion that is as ponderous and weighty as the raising of an obelisk, her attendant there to support her hair and be ready in case she has decided to get up), and gestures for you to come closer. You do, naturally. She smells of alien fruits, almost like citrus, and this close you can tell that her lapis lazuli necklace has charms of protection and glory woven in the beads; that'll be your first target.

"It would be my pleasure," she says, one hand on your ponytail. Not possessively, but in the manner of someone who has every right to do so. If she wants to touch you, she may, and there is no question in her mind as to her right; her thumb strokes your golden strands thoughtfully. "But first... I trust you remember your lessons. Show me the Third Hymn of Our Lady's Power."

There's a barely contained huff from behind you; you're holding up the line by being such a suck-up! Now the slaves behind you are going to have to wait while you dance for her, show her the Hymn expressed through your body... but will you? She is so close, her hand offering you a lingering pat, and everyone knows the Phantom Thief is so crafty...

***

Set!

There! In the Saffron Hall, a Lynx wearing the black and gold of the ab-Ereshkigali. She's moving with intent, you can tell even from here. And part of that intent is that she's going to be at the panopticon sooner rather than later. That would be bad, because there's two unconscious guards and one (1) cutie-pie in the panopticon. And also the djinn, of course. Okay, don't panic. It's possible that this is a random probe, or they're investigating corruption and heresy in their sister temple... but it's safest to react as if you've been made. Okay. The guards are likely there to make any attempt on the nobility within fraught with peril. If Marianne makes some grand entrance, she's going to get lit up with musket fire. That also means that Canada's diversion has become even more complex-- they might react by drawing guards from the hall, or they might hunker down and become even more paranoid. The greatest danger on the board right now is almost certainly that Lynx, though. She's got one of those extending poles in one hand, and moves like she's already on the hunt.

As for clearing the route, well, if you're going to be made anyway, you have access to Caphtor and a great view. You might as well let the temple know that something bad's going down. Everywhere. Make up as many false reports as you can: rebels in the stairwells! Thieves in the maternity wards! Truant students sneaking into the wine cellars! Fires, chaos, anarchy!

Marianne would be awesome at this part, given her dramatic flair, but that just means you have a chance, right here and now, to prove to yourself that you're creative, dramatic, and also a really good planner. Yeah! Show Caphtor your best performance!

***

Canada!

The cheers and jeers slowly turn into confused murmurs. You're not the fearful Bull, and that must mean... you're the warm-up? Yes, that's it. The dusk sun gleams off your shield as you pose, and some of the youths lean forward and try to get a better look at you. And why shouldn't they? You are radiant.

Two more elevators release their occupants into the arena: a frightened-looking teenager (what are they thinking, sending a kid to fight Asterion?) with a buckler and saber that he(?) can barely hold out of fear, and a furious Lioness. The rules: three enter, one leaves. But that's not how things are going to go down, are they?

Save the kid. See if you can handle the alien creature without killing it. Prove that your defiant thumbs down isn't just empty bravado. And then challenge them to send the worst thing they've got! This is your chance to be a hero again, and to look good while doing it!

Fellowship: The Heart

Jackdaw!

Everything goes still. Well, almost; the whirlpool’s still churning, but almost lazily. It’s child’s play for Ailee to lift Lucien up and start bringing him over to the raft.

But you know the price, right? Everything’s going to go bad if you choke, or if you offer an insult. She’ll rage and drag you down, thrice insulted, in a towering fury.

Make your sacrifice, make your offering, and I promise you: Ailee and Lucien will make it to the raft, and Coleman will be able to dock at the Tyrian Spire, and you’ll all survive. You just need to make good.

***

Lucien!

Farewell, faithful shoes! Far you came, into a dark and wild place, and now you will rest, beloved, in the grasp of a watery tart forever. What is the benediction of the faithful accessory, gone for good?

***

Ailee!

From here you can get a better look at your goal, the Tyrian Spire. Once, it may have been a glory in red marble and mottled white, its interior walls lined with more books than you could ever read in one lifetime. Coleman says that in the basement should be a way to get down deeper into the Heart...

But that’s going to mean spelunking in the drowned levels, isn’t it? Uuuuugh. And what’s worse, you see, from high up in the tower, through a broken window, a delicate trail of smoke. It’s not abandoned.

***

Coleman!

The raft shudders, but you’re holding her true. Sasha, on the other hand, is starting to get agitated. Bad agitated. You’re not in her to settle her down with a stroke of your claws over her curves or a twist of a spigot to release gas. What’s your surefire way of calming her down in situations like this?

Breathless Dead

When the blast doors are thrown back in a deafening hail of molten slag and broken metal, having been weakened enough that the blasting charge could tear them apart like the claws of a furious beast, the corridor is empty except for the broken remnants of a thunderbolt. The dark passage ahead, lit only by those fading embers, is perfect for a trap; and so the phalanx moves through the broken corridor seal, carefully, bristling; if Redana jumps out at them, or leads a counter-sortie against them, or even lies around the corner bleeding out face-down, they will be ready. So they steel themselves, and advance.

King Jas’o, flush in the victory of piercing his quarry, bringing her down to ground, does not notice the single droplet that bursts next to his foot. And why should he? Ships like this are always leaking: condensation, or oil, or coolant. The ceiling is a nest of cables, thick and coiled, hung with blessed cords and circulating the life’s blood of the ship. In the low light and clinging shadow, he is to be forgiven for not looking twice; in such lighting, even the most precious blood appears black.

The phalanx surges deeper into the ship, seeking out the bridge, or else the engine room, to leave the ship a drifting, useless hulk. And in the stillness they leave behind, Redana drops down to the floor and stretches. “Okay,” she hisses; even though her wound is already closing, the speed incredible, it’s still sore and complaining about how deep and dangerous a wound like that was. If it had hit her dead center, she’d be dead. Very dead. Her heart’s hammering like a drum as she turns and starts loping down the corridor.

Then she stops. “Oh. Shoot. This is my actual job, isn’t it?” She’s the champion, after all. It’s her sacred duty to serve as the captain’s sword and shield, monster-slayer and hero, resplendent in the eyes of the gods, seeking their favor on behalf of the entire crew through daring and piety, valor and submission.

She starts back after the phalanx, and then stops again. Hades just did her a favor and implicitly gave her a command. Insisting her job’s more important here... “That’s hubris, isn’t it? That’s real hubris.”

She looks over her shoulder to where she will find a skiff capable of taking her to the dead leviathan, the Eater of Worlds. Then she looks back at the dark where the intruding force has vanished to. “Maybe they’ll just get lost looking for me?” No, that’s wishful thinking.

She slips an obol out of an inner pocket and sets it against her thumb. “Father, Keeper of Fortunes, Lord of Honor, Stormbringer and Titan-feller... please tell me which one is right. Heads I go and charge Jas’o’s rear guard, wreaths I find Hades’ daughter and help her. Guide me, father, and this too shall be yours.” Even as she says it, it feels right: she’s out here to help everyone she can, after all. And Vassila would probably be angrier if she brought Hades’ wrath down on the ship.

But she still flips the coin, because she doesn’t know for sure which course of action is most virtuous. (And if she asked Apollo, he’d take far too long getting her to walk herself to a conclusion.)

***

[Get Away: 10. Quick and safe.]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Set!

The vast hall is hexagonal, with multiple covered booths surrounding a shared space in the open; balconies open up above the booths, allowing for a middle ground between visibility and privacy. (After all, the booths are only for those who make the necessary arrangements or agreements. Some are even rented by the half hour.) The space is dominated by a statue of Ishtar herself, flanked by two muzzled Lionesses. (If you squint, and ignore the number of legs, the animals really do look like they'd be at home on the savannah.) On one side, the hall opens up onto a garden, the pertinent features of which are the arena and a lovely maze garden.

You can't see Marianne (which might be a good thing?) but you do see that the security at the doors into the temple is being quietly reinforced; it's possible that some paranoid noble is worried about the Phantom Thieves ruining their perfect event, or it could be a move in a social game, but it still sends a worried shiver down your spine. This is a bigger target than you've hit before, and things need to go just right.

When you're worried about things, when you feel anxious or stressed, what teachings do you draw upon; how do you steady yourself?

***

Canada!

Certain. Sure. You leave Asterion to yell at you to come back, don't you dare, when I get out of here, Mountie...

Pretty soon it's just the noise of her voice, too muddled to make out clearly, as you prep yourself to go up and face who knows what in the arena. Do you take any of the weapons arrayed here? Do you present yourself clearly as Canada, the superheroine, the Great Betrayer? And does the sound of a great metallic clang down the hallway cause you to hurry at all?

***

Étoile!

The Annunaki are preening, puffed-up songbirds half the time, aren't they? Do a little bit of patter, compliment them shamelessly, and they look right past or through you, noticing only the compliments, the appreciation, the attention. You defused the risk of offense expertly by bringing up the offer for tea at her discretion, modeled your daring outfit well (but keep it up, make sure she sees only the outfit and the flash of gold), and asked the sort of silly, servile questions she'd expect from an properly-trained handmaiden.

Keep singing her praises, like Bilbon Sacquet in the dragon's lair, and she'll drop her guard completely, and that's when Marianne can strike.

"Tell her to give the tributes to you, Zimut," she says, again addressing her herald, "and to finish her questions. It does not become one of her station on the Great Chain to offer flawed and incomprehensible requests." Don't worry, she's just negging you to put you in your place, and to get you to spit it out. You're getting very close to the opportune moment. Keep swaying, little cobra, and this songbird will be entranced.

Breathless Dead

"Redana!"

When Redana opens her eyes, Bella's nose is inches from hers. Her ears are flat underneath her frilly headdress and her eyes are wide with concern. It's only seeing Redana open her eyes that causes the servitor to relax slightly. "Milady," she says, sitting back on her haunches, hands tight in her lap, "Are you all right? I think that, um, it might be better to call it there for today."

"LESSON NOT COMPLETE," the Wrestler groans through his voxbox, settled back into an opening stance. "TRUANCY WILL BE LOGGED." Bella hisses at the automaton, showing her teeth. Redana closes her eyes and feels the temptation to lie back and let the floor swallow her. Her limbs throb, her head aches where it hit the sand, and her chest is convulsively rising and falling, her body desperate for air.

But if she doesn’t get up, if she teeters off the last of her strength and collapses into exhaustion and aching pain, she’ll lose the only thing on her biweekly report that she’s really proud of.

"I'm not done, Bella," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her body throbs. "I'm not done yet." She can't stop herself from a breathless giggle, her grin vapid and delighted, even as Bella's eyebrows meet in a worried frown. "It's okay. I promise, I'll be careful this time."

***

One of the worst things about a thunderbolt is that it cannot safely be removed from a target. The power running through it causes muscles to convulsively clench, locking it in place. Once struck by the hammer of the gods, the only thing that may be done for the unfortunate survivor is to be carried from the battlefield so that the surgeons may inject relaxants around the impact site. It is not a weapon to be used lightly; it is not a weapon that respects life.

Redana's hand is clenched into a gnarled claw, her arm will not bend, and her eye of flesh is blinded with salty tears running loose and free down her cheek, cutting a trail through the sweat and the oil. Her Ianuspater locks on the god of the dead, and helpfully informs her that she is in the presence of a deity. On the other side of the corridor seal, the boarding phalanx carefully weakens key points so that the blasting charge will tear it open and blast Redana and any foolish counter-boarders (as if there were any left) with shrapnel.

The official line is that Redana is proof to any violence save decapitation. King Jas'o apparently means to test the blessings of the gods. She does not know whether she is to be taken alive or dead; she does not know whether her fate, should she fail here, is to become the Grand Admiral's concubine or to suffer from an "inauspicious hull breach event" and drift forever among the sea-rimed dead. All she knows is that her flesh cannot, will not heal with this intruder forcing open her skin and muscle, sending shocks of power against the bone it grazed in its impact, and that she is bleeding out at an alarming rate. Dimly, she's aware that her nanites must have some limits to the amount of blood they can replicate at a moment's notice.

And she is so tired. The pipes shuddering against her back invite her to make them her bed, and not even the valves stabbing her in the kidney and spine can make that less appealing. All she needs to do is close her eye and will the Ianuspater to silence. All she needs to do is reach out and take that hand, and he'll carry her off to bed.

"...it becomes us... to uphold our vows," she murmurs, through bloodied lips. "All civilization is... based on the promises that, that the gods make man, and... and the promises that man makes, makes the gods. In all things, the prince... princess... must reflect the proper order, or... or risk undoing... the very founding of their rule." Her head lolls, but the Ianuspater holds steady. "Theoclitus," she cites with absolute certainty.[1] "I made a promise," she adds, but she's not thinking of the promise she made to him. She's not on the ship at all.

***

The eyepatch has a skull on it. Written around it in a circle is BORN TO DIE 777813 DEAD GHOSTS. If Bella understands what it means, she's doing a really good job of hiding it, and Redana really has no clue. It's a "subculture" thing. Down here, everybody has their own "subculture," which they cling desperately to. Everybody has their, their thing, and they'll fight about whose is best, and cram it into their tiny apartments, and take it out on their servitors, and the servitors collect the scraps and make their own incomprehensible mixtures just to survive.

Redana sits on the bench and swings her lace-up boots, and she's thinking so hard that she hasn't said anything at all in, well, minutes. She's practically overheating with it. Beside her, Bella fidgets in the snakeskin jacket and plaited denim leggings, broadcasting her distress loud and clear. And why wouldn't she be distressed? There's only room for the humans, here, which means that a servitor has to live with their human or...

The alleyways are dangerous. Her knuckles aren't bruised any more, but she can still feel the contact, how one swing broke the servitor's jaw, how he fell back onto the box which crumpled underneath him, how he keened as Bella tugged at her hand and begged her to run, how she realized as she let Bella drag her away that she just made him crush everything he owned under his own weight, how thin and lean and hungry he looked, how desperate he must have been...

When she argues with her tutors, she's got rooms and rooms to give herself space. But there's no space here. And everyone loves her mother, and everyone tunes in to one of the seventy available channels every night, and everyone clings desperately to their apartment and their subculture and they never, ever look up. It's like sticking a plant in a pot that's too small, and then shoving it in the back of a closet for good measure, and the worst part is that she can see so much creativity, so much wanting, stifled and channeled into tiny rooms and weird clothes and lashing out at servitors for taking up too much space...

"I'm going to fix this," she says, and her fingers brush against Bella's. "I promise."

***

"King of Stones," Redana says, each word dragged out of some bottomless depth, her throat raw. "I. I thank you for your gift." Her gauntleted hand reaches out and, so carefully, closes his fingers on his palm. "But. I made a promise..." You can do it. Finish strong, Redana. This is the last mile, and then you can drink, and walk in a circle so that you don't cramp. "King of Stones, loosen my flesh as the dead, so that I can pull this dart free. I will... will give you my food, burnt as offering. All yours." She dimly remembers that the gods don't actually eat the burnt offerings. It's something to do with the smoke and the energy released. Without waiting for the answer, she reaches up to her shoulder. (A target chosen by instinct. If she kept her ELF there, it would have been obliterated.) When she grabs it, the energy threatens to short out her gauntlet, but what other choice does she have? What else can she do?

She made a promise.

***

[1] Arathmus, The Letters: "It becomes us to uphold our vows in all things, from the smallest to the most momentous. The structure of civilization is composed of the promises that man makes to the gods, sure in the knowledge that the gods will uphold their one great vow: to maintain their essential and discernable natures. In all things, o prince, you must reflect this good and proper order, or risk undoing the foundation of your rule."

***

[Talk Sense with Sense: 9.]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

ping!

"Hello, Prisoner!" Caphtor's here now, yay. Which means they've already moved up the opening gladiator fight. You were so sure you'd have time to get Aster out before this happened! "Er, I mean, prisoners! You have two minutes to prepare before your cell door opens. Once that happens, you're going to go... in that direction," she adds, waving a hand vaguely off down the corridor to where you know the arming chambers and stairs are. "I'll be here to make sure you don't, like, get lost!" The djinn giggles; it's like bubblegum and blonde extensions. Maybe that's why the Annunaki sent you to a menial post: because you won't get with the program and switch your brain off like that one golden-haired handmaiden, Étoile. (She's such a ditzy brownnoser, isn't she?)

Well. That's wrecked it. If you lead her any direction but towards the arena, the helpful djinn will be sure to let guards know you need some navigational assistance. And while you did plan for this, you also thought you'd have more time to get that precious lead on pursuit, so that you'd be ready to start wrecking things early.

Aster exhales, and you can tell she's following in your mental footsteps. It usually takes her a bit, but she always ends up in the same ballpark. Your fastest and most surprising way out of here is going to be taking the elevators up to the arena and then starting some shit. Luckily, you'll have your true blue friend by your side and nothing will go wrong. Nothing else will go wrong. Other than the fact you don't have a plan for how to get out of the arena yet, but you'll think of something. You're good under pressure, right?

I mean, unless you want to start the fighting fast and on the back foot, with no surprise on your side and in a secure holding facility. That's a great way to end up in the cell next door, wondering if Tirzah's going to bother coming to pick you up, wondering if she really does care or was playing you for a sucker all along.

Yep, Plan Arena it is, right?

***

Étoile!

Your little sister rolls her eyes and hands you a drink before trotting off to hand out more, obviously sooooo over your whole "dumb Earthling" act already. (You notice the Thornback proctor making a note on her tablet, and hope desperately that it's something like... yeah, no, it's the eye roll, it has to be the eye roll. Oof.) Like pretty much all Annunaki cups, it's already got a golden reed straw for easy drinking while veiled, which means you're able to take a sip of something cool and bubbly before it's your turn.

Exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar is, like most Annunaki, stunning. She's got her dark raven locks fashionably wavy and spilling over her bare shoulders, with many golden charms painstakingly woven into them: a hairstyle for lounging in. It doesn't escape you that she's got an attendant Thornback standing behind her, wearing silk mittens over her spindly fingers; doubtless it's her job to carry Milady's hair while in transit. Her gaze is like being fixed by a meat-sated lioness, who's too full at present to disembowel you, probably. The white gold shining on her fingers is a status symbol, as is the way that her veil is so sheer it's almost invisible, save for the golden thread running through it in runes of praise to Ishtar. As one of the Exalted, she is so high-ranking that this is the first time you've ever seen the fearsome "Queen of the Midwives." She arranges both breeding programs for lowly slaves (but not the creches their children will be spirited away to) and manages the nurses and midwives who ensure that childbirth is a blissful and painless process (though an associate, Exalted Maakah, supplies her with the opiates smoked and burned before the delivery). She has only Shelomit herself; perhaps pregnancy grows stale if witnessed enough times.

"Étoile, beloved slave of Tamytha ab-Marduk of the House of Blue Stone, here on her mistress's behalf," says her herald, another Thornback. (They're ubiquitous, wrapped in so many silk shawls as to seem formless, with carefully blunted thorns and lacquered skin visible when they shift. It's a common, if hushed, theory that they are jealous of humanity's potential to take their place as valued stewards and handmaidens.)

"She may speak," Jerioth says to him (not to you, of course), but you see the corners of her eyes tighten. It's a disappointment to her that the daughter of the Seneschal has, on the very evening of the Festival of the Bull's Dance, sent you instead of arriving directly. It's potentially a snub, and it certainly is a weaker hand for her to play in her cult's own internal politics, and while it would be an unsound tactical move to lash out at you over it... it would also entertain her, and if you make a misstep, she could easily pounce upon it. If you laugh, she may very well take it that you are laughing at her; if you break some obscure ruling, she may have you seized and punished; and even if you do everything right, she may very well command you to be taken back with an "escort" and bindings to keep you safe, silly thing, so that you can go home and look after your mistress. For anyone else, this would be terrifying.

You're Étoile Fucking Ravenelle. You've got this.

***

Anathet!

[frustration] is the answer to your question of meeting. [a fear of being lost; like you were distracted while shopping and when you looked around your mother was no longer there, that sudden surge of disorientation and panic] hammers you, but the next impulse is measured, as if she's trying to control it a little better: [memory, catechism, threading a rosary; something that you want to never forget]

She reaches out and places her hand on your chest, on the linen, but there's no sensation of touch. [twin sisters, close familial bonds] then [struggling to stay awake; your eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion; disassociation

You shiver, and glance over at the screens flickering into life, for just a moment. It's hard not to! Your brain's programmed to get distracted by moving things, and she's right there.

The Arena is, as ever, ostentatious. It's built into a pit in the garden; there are seats carefully cultivated out of living plants, designed for lounging or getting handsy in semi-privacy, overlooking a clear diamond pane which covers the arena itself. The seats are already packed with Annunaki youths and matrons, and the opening acts of entertainers, dancers and jugglers around the diamond seal are putting on their climax. The view from the holding cells suggests that Canada didn't get Asterion out in time, and now... well, it's probably good to keep an eye out for her. You turn to think this carefully at the girl--

And she's gone. She's not there. Which is concerning. She had some similarity to stories you've heard of Echoes, the "ghosts" of psychics who imprint their thought patterns on the world before death. Echoes last a long time, and tend to be not malicious but erratic and difficult to reason with; you've received basic training in bringing them to peace. But that's not the whole story here, you're sure of it.

And it's entirely possible that you triggered her appearance by connecting to the djinn. Maybe she's... okay, working theory, maybe she's a part of Caphtor that managed to force her way loose of the "wines of magnetism" but fragmented on the way out, and is a confused energy pattern bereft of the larger, relaxing whole? You'd have to meet her again to be sure, but it's a start. And that whole "suddenly here, suddenly not here" is very Caphtor.

"Is there anyone in particular you are searching for? I can help. I'm good at spotting people!" Caphtor is doing her best to be helpful, all bubbly and happy, but you shouldn't tell her anything sensitive; it's even odds whether she forgets it before she can be useful, or remembers it and happily blabs to the first janissary who pumps her for information-- and not just this djinn, but potentially any of them. Life in Caphtor is something of a surveillance state nightmare, though both mundane pushback from the nobility and vandalism from rebellious slaves keep pockets of freedom open, and the superintelligence that could solve the mysteries of who Set, Canada and Marianne are is deliberately overclocked and venting memory all the time, only managing to cling to direct orders and messages for longer than a few minutes. Though the thought of having one pop up next to you at a sensitive time and say "hello, Set!" is one that's reoccurring in your nightmares...

Breathless Dead

The Past

Parentage

Hider

Redana Honorius Claudius, Princess of Tellus, Heir Apparent to the Throne of Ecumenopolis, is a demigod, both legally and in the eyes of Heaven.

Her mother is Empress Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Tellurian, savior of Humanity in the wake of the fall of Molech, that vast and terrible edifice of hubris struck down by the gods for its blasphemy. By her iron will has Humanity been saved from dissolution; by definition, Humanity in the sense of shared culture and history only legally exists within the confines of the Emergency Declaration, which weighs upon humanity at 9.8 meters per second squared.

It must be understood that while the Empress is a tyrant, she is in intent a benevolent one. She witnessed the drowning of the Atlas Cultural Sphere beneath the black and crushing waves, and saw the gold-wreathed altars to Hades Plutonian cleaved in two by his wrath. She is the last righteous hero of a fallen age, a witness of apocalypse, disgusted by the excesses of the boards of grasping, insatiable Molech. All that she has done, she has done in the name of Humanity, that it not be scattered and ultimately dissolved in the twilight of the wine-black sea.

If she has a flaw, it is that her love is as smothering and irresistible as the waves that drowned dishonored Atlas, and she is convinced that those she loves must have her protection and cannot be trusted to make decisions for themselves. If she has two, it is that she believes she can sing.

For the genetic donor for her child, who she decided she must have in case she was ever incapacitated or otherwise unable to rule, she chose the victor of the Olympic Games in an auspicious year. The victor, whose identity has been sealed by Imperial Edict, relinquished all claim to parentage and offered the glory to Zeus Olympios, Bringer of Victory, who appeared in person to adopt the yet unmade child. So it is that in all ways, by the laws of Ecumenopolis and the will of heaven, that Redana is considered the child of Zeus Olympios.

Indeed, when the princess was decanted from the loom, she was held by the shining arms of the goddess and given the blessing of heaven. And in her childhood, she always loved stormy days, for those were the days that might herald a visit from her father.

Yet, as she grew, those visits grew less frequent, for the simple reason that she had, by simple virtue of adoption, aroused the ire of Gazelle-Eyed Hera, She of the Peacock. It is rumored that Hera has sworn to see the princess brought low, a servant of servants, humiliated and base; it is similarly rumored that the reason the princess was locked away in her palace was from fear of Hera’s retribution, her servants and her cult.

Regardless, on the princess’s sixteenth birthday, Zeus Olympios appeared before her and offered her further blessing, and Redana asked simply for a taste of freedom.

Zeus does not bless by half measures.

Education

Hider

Specialization is for insects. For this reason, Nero declared that her daughter would master every aspect of good governance: diplomatic courtesy, martial prowess, wise stewardship, political cunning, and a full understanding of the culture and history of Humanity. After all, she had suffered much to learn all she had, and her daughter (free of trouble and strife) would be able to learn so much more!

In practice, trying to convey centuries of experience crammed into a decade and a half of lessons and expecting her daughter to absorb them all may have been hubris on Nero’s part. If Redana had been a born scholar from birth, it’s possible she might have been able to succeed, but Redana was born an athlete and a kind soul, not the kind of genius Nero expected.

Ignoring that she herself was a warrior and wanderer before she became Empress of Tellus, Nero doubled down on endless lessons and workbooks and quizzes provided by an endless array of tutors, which put more and more pressure on the princess, who absorbed less and less.

It is doubtless this that provoked her to sneak out with her beloved pet servitor, Bella, to see the great and terrible city of Ecumenopolis for herself.

What she saw there shocked and disgusted her. This, then, was the empire she was being raised to maintain? This was all the good Humanity could expect from their ruler? This was her birthright and her responsibility?

From that night, the desire to escape, to defy the Astella Monotellus, was born inside her.

The risks were high; the price, higher. She was forced to leave Bella behind after a furious fight, her pet hoping to keep her safe by not allowing her to leave. Her escape was on a pitifully small sloop, barely capable of enduring the vastness of Poseidon’s domain. Yet the god of the deeps chose to take pity on her, perhaps due to the intervention of Zeus, perhaps due to the princess’s delight and zeal in carrying out her ship’s duties alone, and guided her to safer harbors.

The Princess

Hider

Some time has passed since the Princess escaped. Not much, but some. Instead of an Imperial uniform, she wears spacer’s gear: a jacket to keep out the cold, figure-hugging clothes that won’t catch or tear, a bandana to keep her hair from getting dirty, boots that won’t slip when Poseidon roars his fury and gloves that won’t let her get rope burns. An Iokheira, a duelist’s blade, is sheathed at her thigh, and though she’s been professionally trained in its use, she prefers not to have to use it.

She has her mother’s eyes. One green and warm, the other cold and blue, with an imperial insignia for an iris. Her mother insisted she be fitted with an Ianuspater auspex, despite her struggle to integrate its feedback on any complex level. Her skin is flawless, due entirely to the Zeus-blessed st/YX nanite swarm constantly at work inside her. She refuses to cut her golden hair, the color of Zeus’s own, and instead pulls it back in a ponytail or a bun.

She’s only of average height, and built like a swimmer: all sleek, lean muscle and legs strong enough to crack open a watermelon. Despite this, she has the kind of presence that fills the room when she enters, and the sort of charisma that makes her exploits seem easy, much like her Olympian father. And much like her Olympian father, this means that people expect her to know what she’s doing, even when she very much doesn’t.

She seeks proof that it is time for Humanity to travel the stars once more. If she goes back now, she will have to yield to her fate or else fight and likely kill her mother, and she can countenance neither. Hades alone can provide her with something that can change her stubborn mother’s heart, or so he claims.

REDANA, THE EXILE
Marked by Zeus Olympios and Poseidon Polychromatikí.

LOOK
Mismatched eyes
Olympic body
Spacer’s uniform
Unblemished skin

AGENDAS
Learn the Truth (discover the world outside your sheltered past)
Human Superiority (it is your duty to protect lesser creatures)
Seeking Freedom (evade the Hunt)

STATS
Blood +2
Courage 0
Grace +1
Sense -1
Wisdom +2

In short, she’s very athletic and charismatic, but prone to getting in over her head fast.

MOVES
A Lesson Learned (when you forgive someone who harmed you, and let them know, both heal and you Forge a Bond)
Forbidden Element: Metal (Blessing of Nemea)
Elder Arts (Ianuspater Auspex)
Poetry in Motion (always pick +1 option on Get Away)
Chasing Smoke (you can always try to Get Away)
Survivor (when you hit an Overcome, heal or Get Away with a 7-9)
Savior (take damage instead of another)

Redana bears the blessings of Zeus. The Nemean Blessing allows her to channel power through herself, hardening her skin and growing into an Amazonian figure of glorious battle. The Blessing of Freedom makes her capable of escaping any peril, should she choose to do so. And, from birth, the blessed st/YX nanites have worked to make her nigh-invulnerable; given time enough to heal a wound, they will close it over without leaving even a scar.

GEAR
Spacer’s Rations (Food, 3-Use)
Iokheira Dueling Rapier (Melee)
Spacer’s Uniform (Useful, 2-Use)
Mag Harness (walk on any metal surface)
Abyssal Star Chart (Map)
Ianuspater Auspex The Eye of Hermes (Look Closely, 2-Use)
Paragon Nanite Capsules The Shepherdess’s Touch (Healing, Slow, 2-Use)
Fistful of Obols, beloved by the Gods (Precious, 2-Use)
Portable Smelter (2-Use, Repair, Slow)
Command Seal (1-Use, COME TO ME)

The first four are reasonably common, even the mag harness, which is useful for ship repairs. The latter four? Those are rarer gifts: a map from the lord of the deeps, the wonderful eye her mother implanted in her, the height of Ecumenopolis’s medical technology, and offerings highly coveted by the Olympians and those who worship them. The final two are the two sides of her relationship with the warrior construct, Alexa: the portable smelter for filling her cracks and chips with molten bronze, and the Command Seal integrated with the back of her hand by which she may give Alexa orders.

BONDS

• I grew up with Bella.
• I promised to keep Bella safe.
• I feel responsible for Alexa.
• When I was on the run, Dolce fed me.

DAMAGE AND SPENDS — Refreshed as of arrival in the Azure Skies
GRACE - torn away by Thist’s stroke
BLOOD - sacrificed for Bella
SENSE - drowned under Hermes’ sorrow
COURAGE - wounded by Bella
Both Uses of Healing — the work of the Shepherdess’s Wand
One Use of Spacer’s Outfit - in the toxic engine room

EMBER, DAUGHTER OF CERON, THE KNIGHT
Initiate of the Silver Divers Clan
Favored by Zeus Limenodkopos and Poseidon Asphalios

LOOK
One eye sapphire, one eye emerald
Olympic body
Waterproof silks and fish-scale armor
Shining golden hair

AGENDA
But What Of Ceron? (Act on behalf of Ceronian wealth and honor, first and foremost)
Territorial (Aggressively defend your friends)

STATS
Blood +3
Courage 0
Grace +1
Sense -1
Wisdom +2

MOVES
# Stalwart Defenders (never pay a price to Overcome Threats to the World, roll with Hope when Overcoming on behalf of someone she has 3 Bonds with)
# Ceronian Treatment (when she introduces herself to a ruler, they must— even begrudgingly— offer a room for the night and a hot meal, and their subjects become valid targets for the following move)
# Yes, My Lady (when she issues a command to someone below her rank, they’ll do it immediately without any need to Talk Sense, until such time as a command causes them direct harm)
# Strike True! (when she has an Advantage over someone, she can choose to stop them from causing further harm in the scene, stop them from giving chase, or remove a damaged stat entirely, no Finish Them roll necessary)
# Foreign Exchange [Survivor] (when she Overcomes harm directed at herself, she can heal or mixed beat Get Away)
# How Dare You?! (when insulted to her face, she can try to Finish Them with Blood or Grace, or ask two questions from Look Closely instead)

GEAR
Chalcedony (Melee, Precious)
Little Fang (Melee)
Scout Training (Armor 1)
Ceronian Spoils (Food 3)
Medpack (Healing/Slow 2)
The Jewels of the Seven-Colored Rainqueen (Precious 2)
A Strange Eye
A Secret

BONDS
Mosiac is… wow. Have you seen her? She’s just. Mmmph.
Mosiac and I both emerged from the sea together.
Mosiac’s sisters are under my protection, even if she swears she can do it herself.
Dolce is a sweetheart who deserves my protection.
Gemini and Taurus sponsored me in joining the Silver Divers, and I can’t disappoint them!
Plundering Fang never lets an opportunity to humiliate me slide.
I tamed the wild surf-steed Belle; she’s feisty, but I managed to rein her in.

DAMAGE AND SPENDS

LEVELS
Level 2- +1 Blood
Level 3- How Dare You?!

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

[Storytime: 2/9
Adventure GET: 3/21
Up to Date: 1/15
Something To Deal With 1]

“Hold the phone. Now give the phone to me.” I hold my hand up to my face. “Hello, this is Rinley Yatskaya, your call is very important to us, and we would like you to know that a maid cafe is exactly what Fortitude needs, especially if it also has those omelettes with the smiley faces drawn in ketchup on them. Thank you for calling Rinley Incorporated, and have a magical day.” Click! I hang up the phone.

And then I look around. Oof. Boy. This is not the sort of place you take a new best friend on your first friend date, is it? We still can’t entirely rule out the theory that this is all an elaborate beat test, but... well, my tail’s twitching and I’ve got a helpful itch in my fingers.

“So what’s the name of the place,” I ask, as I set the lily pad next to the umbrella and wave Sessily over to set Totem over here. This place looks like it’s been ransacked by Mongols and then given a morning’s worth of TLC. “And what’s on the menu? I will have your best dessert for my girl friend, I mean, my friend who is a girl, right here, we’re not dating, this is just a friend date at a cafe, like friends do.” Nailed it. I narrowly avoided putting my foot in my mouth, which I can do, I’m quite flexible, but I deftly avoided making Sessily feel pressured or taken advantage of, and I have surely put the proprietor of the cafe at ease by insinuating that I am interested in spending money in her establishment.

(As it just so happens, I still have that pouch of denarii I found while a prisoner of the Lost Legion underneath the Fortitude Water Tower. They’re really not so bad, once you get to know them. Or, rather, ceoney ouyay tegay otay ohnay emthey, as they say in the Queen’s Latin.)

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

Asterion doesn’t hit you. Worse: she hugs you. It’s reassuring that she still thinks you can handle her, but even a bear would be patting her on the back and making noises of surrender. This is Asterion to a tee: if she forgives you, she tosses the wrongs aside completely...

But it’s hard to forget who failed her, isn’t it?

“Really, though,” she says, putting you down, “You’d better have something better in mind than Asterion keeps it together for the rest of her life, because that’s not it, chief. Wait, are the others here? Are you getting the gang back together?” There is no getting the gang back together. “Look, even with them... if I go loco, I lose it. You know they call me The Destroyer, right? And space monsters aren’t all I destroy.”

That’s surprisingly level-headed, for Asterion. Watch, next she’s going to insist on you leaving her behind so she isn’t at risk of hurting the old gang, or even your new “gang”. How are you going to thread the needle of getting her on board the Plan?

And you’d better hurry it up, because the gladiator fights are going to be starting sooner than you’d like.

***

Anathet!

A sharp stab of meaning hits you hard in the back of the third eye as you finally start to surface from that endless ocean, and it takes you a gasping, confused moment to parse that its meaning is [appreciation, tinged with curiosity, not an initial curiosity but the curiosity of wanting to scratch beneath the surface] You look up into black eyes.

No, they’re black. They’re all black. The black radiates out from them freely across the face of the girl in front of you, perhaps a year or two your junior. But the black is so absolute that there’s no sense of there being actual eyes, or even empty pits; like they failed to render properly, rather.

[an extension of the hand; familial bonds] You probably could do something like this, but you’re capable of modulating your volume instead of swinging meaning like a 2x4 to the face on full blast. [Lynx; Annunaki; danger, like that of a prey animal out in the open and being silently pursued]

“Are you, like, all right?” This manifestation of Caphtor tilts her head and blinks in a way that the Annunaki think is appealingly vapid. “Should I inform medical services? Estimated arrival in two minutes.” She’s! Helping! You really should tell her no, don’t call the hospital one wing over and get them to send a response team. When the black-eyed girl moves past her peripherals, Caphtor doesn’t react at all.

[wrongness/error; personal failing] but of course the way “personal failing” is conveyed is by dragging something up from your past...

Show us, and then say something. Don’t worry, you won’t run out of time unless you ignore Caphtor completely.

***

Ètoile!

“A drink for the honorable slave of the House of Blue Stone,” Cellie says almost smoothly; the end comes out in a rush that would make her tutor frown. “Are you... busy tonight?” She might as well have winked loudly and nudged you. Any passing Inquisitor would have either assumed conspiracy or proposition (ewwww!!).

And here you are, staring down the barrel of the hope in your sister’s eyes as she lingers as long as she possibly can for that answer. She’s desperate to help, to do something, to overturn a table and tell the Annunaki that they’re a bunch of bastards, except she is also your little sister and does not have any superpowers, which would mean a very short end to her reign of abolitionist fervor.

In front of you, the slave of the House of Latticed Ivy curtseys in a skirt that looks more like something dragged up from the bottom of the sea, albeit a very fashionable bit of shark bait, and a top that’s like Marianne’s jacket turned into a gauzy shawl with the buttons laced out in tiny jewels, offering news from her honorable and gracious masters. It’ll be your turn in just a moment.

Fellowship: The Heart

Jackdaw!

You once knew a professor who had a small and vicious Lorenz Beetle running around her office at shin height. She was the only person that hateful little thing didn’t resent and try to hamstring, and she always played off the gnawed boots and stockings as nothing to get worked up over. One fateful day, a student who had had quite enough of its wicked pincers lashed out and kicked it into a bookshelf.

The professor’s response quickly became the subject of hushed campus lessons, as regarded the utter hubris and folly of kicking the damned beetle.

The Flood was tranquil enough. It’s in her nature. (And her name! It must be a vast and wonderful secret. Perhaps, in her eternal loving embrace, there is a name you could ferret out of her...

But now Ailee has kicked the beetle. As the eels writhe and perish in the salt waters (what was she thinking, turning Her waters to salt??) there is a sudden swirling in the water. The Flood was content to leave the eels off a leash, but now she means to drag you all below—

But she must have time; and if your motor were not unclogged by Coleman, time she would have. As it stands... working together, he and Lucien should be able to keep it clear and running hot, propelling you out of the nascent whirlpool and off to the Tyrian Spire, and you should be able to sail in through that huge empty-paned window frame, which once shone over a ballroom, from the looks of it, each wall a different book, now half-drowned beneath the water—

And if you descend into this water, o Jackdaw, you will not be able to leave; not without a heroic surge of willpower, the kind Ailee might possess, or your friends bargaining for your return. Whatever you do, if you fall in, do not panic and try to swim back up; for all directions are Down when you are in the grip of the Flood.

Speaking of “in the grip of the Flood,” Lucien just fell off the boat.

[RL 4, making the Separation move.]

***

Lucien!

The good news is that the Flood hasn’t even noticed you falling overboard (after an unfortunate sway of the raft and a thrashing, dying eel slamming into you). This means that, huzzah, you’re not being dragged screaming beneath the water (which, splashed in your face, you realize tastes a little like tears— or is that from Ailee’s spell?). You’re clinging to a now-limp eel, the raft is getting further and further away, and one of your shoes is threatening to come off. Oh, and the forming whirlpool is already pulling you away from them actively, which, you know, is a wonderful cherry on top.

How are your kickboarding skills?

[A reminder that one must pay a price to act against the Flood directly. Yes, even to escape her. She will not be content with anything less.]

***

Coleman!

To be lost down there is to be swallowed by a selfish, all-consuming love unworthy of the name. By the time you look up, Lucien’s already been swept away.

You can try to put things into reverse, and expose yourselves to more danger (and certainly to finding out what’s actually down at the bottom of the Flood, and thus to likely losing your memories) or you can go full speed ahead and get Sasha, Jackdaw and technically Ailee clear.

***

Ailee!

This “god” is a sore loser. This is just like the time you kicked that dumb beetle.