Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Like some sort of useless herded animal, Dolly absolutely cannot ask Angela to pick her up (again). There's absolutely no signs that she wants that, to be lifted and squished. Ignore the tail starting to curl around Angela's leg on its own. No, focus on the way she's scrolling up and down the list of components and looking around, trying to find Electronics Collectives. Somewhere where the ceilings are low and the barter is... oh, no, she can't take Angela there, she'd end up on her hands and knees! Or maybe that's why she should take Angela there? No, no, on short notice... they'll have to do Terenian-style shopping, won't they? With the fixed prices and the exchange of credit?

"I'm not just a pilot," Dolly points out, standing up on her tippies to try to get a little height over the crowd and failing miserably. "I'm the High Priestess. I have to do the things that the goddess needs done, that's my responsibility. And it's not like I'm not used to menial, to work? I was a Gardens, you know. You have to start by learning a lot about plants and soil and growth rates, but we also have to keep the gardens running. Sprinklers, lights, heating... we need to know how it works, so that we can fix it, and so that we can tinker with it. I even know some of the things we're buying today, I just... don't quite know where we're...?"

She trails off, then adds, thoughts bouncing off into the weeds, "Thank you for coming, by the way. Even if, you know, we're rivals. I'm sure you'll get your revenge on Jade eventually. It's just that she didn't want me coming alone after everything with the Red Band, and you're actually really impressive? Like, Stones filled me in on you and the Zaldarians at the Gala, and, that was, wow, and, did you really throw an entire refreshments table? I could understand throwing a bowl or something, but an entire table?" The lilt in her voice suggests that she very much wants to hear about throwing the table at the Zaldarian Queen actually please ma'am.

Breathless Dead

The Plover shines like a piece of Olympus granted to Ceron, resplendent on the black-and-gold marble of the launch deck. It is not strange to only have a handful; everyone knows that exclusivity is a marker of taste and quality. A knife is thrust through her belt as a last resort; a blade as large as a statue sits ready for the Plover and her pilot. The fools don't know what they do, daring the anger of this war-machine, this great and terrible wrath that stands poised to make this flight their very last.

"I'm going to name you... hmm." Ember twists up her mouth in that little way she does, one hand on her hip, looking up at the Plover. "You do need a name. Or maybe you want to earn one? That's it, that's why. After we scatter them into the void, I'll have the right name for you. I'm Little Ember, and I'll be riding you today. Thank you for your service and your loyalty."

She waves with a clash of bangles over at her wingsnake, ears up and delighted, smile tinted coral pink by her silk. "Over here! Gosh, goodness, a real knight of the Azura! What will the terms of our wager be? Don't worry about making it particularly fair, you're doing us a service by joining me anyway. Don't underestimate me, though; even if I haven't piloted one of these before, one look and I know, I know I'm going to be good at this. I'm Little Ember, and I know you, you're Dyssia, aren't you? I haven't had the time to thank you for what you did on Bitemark, that little unpleasantness, what have you thought of the ship thus far? Beautiful, isn't it?"

Breathless Dead

Stars, scattered across a high ceiling.

When Ember led her friends (including, notably, Goldie and Taurus, and also Magus Fussyfangs) into the Observation Hall, she was the only one who believed that it would still work. Surely the old cartographic wonder wouldn’t work at all— surely its lenses would be clouded and useless, its walls no longer able to shift and illustrate, its shrine to Poseidon bereft of all holiness, nothing but a waterlogged ruin.

But no. Not with a little bit of polish, some work to realign lenses, a favor owed the Azura Knight to borrow an Atlas Thalassa from her ship, and one of Little Ember’s visions was realized for everyone else to see: a room where the Endless Azure Skies were on full display. It’s one thing to go and party with Plundering Fang, but it’s another to press your hands on the wall and watch as representations of a hundred planets blossom, brightly colored, fern-curls of nebulas wrapping around them. Draw them down, spread your fingers wide, watch as the figures of the gods on the walls hold a representation of a planet between them, stretching from wall to wall, until it’s too much to fully take in.

Sagetip can have her temple. For now, at least; Fussyfangs is drawing up plans for how to cut Sagetip off, and then Ember can begin petitioning the gods on behalf of the pack properly. But for now, Ember is satisfied with painstakingly repairing the shrine to Poseidon, wreathed in detritus found in odd corners of the ship, crowned with crabs, surrounded by offerings by Ceronians wishing for safe voyage to a hundred hundred worlds.

And Poseidon has responded, hasn’t he? Hasn’t he just.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Everyone is watching.

It’s always been the promise, the thrill, the risk, the tug that kept Dolly scampering on. The electric feeling of eyes on her— on her— impossible, infeasible, ridiculous. To be desired, the center of attention, but with plausible deniability. How mortifying it would be if she was exposed and the reaction was just irritation, hissing, or lectures about how good Gardens wouldn’t do such a thing! Beneath the fear of bothering others, a pit of sensuality, bottled up until her goddess exploded into her life.

But this is different from having compromising images leaked to a rival pilot or being toyed with in public by the invisible hands of her lover. This is a very public demonstration for a private event. The whole station feels like it’s packed into the tent as Jade guides her through the performance, pushing at her boundaries carefully, a delectable snack dangled in front of everyone, especially—

Especially Angela. Does the Terenian catch the shy glances that her “rival” kept tossing her way, over a bare shoulder, hands guided down her stomach? This certainly wasn’t the first time Angela had seen her like this, but it was the first with this sort of… imbalance. With Angela as a member of the audience, watching as Jade guides Dolly through a prancing circle, tail lifted, wrists in the air, hips swinging exaggeratedly. Definitely not the sort of thing a Gardens would do. If she was able to speak, would she blurt out something hot-tongued and awkward to the lovely alien?

Then Six Stones pulls her top off, prances on stage, and pulls Dolly close, disrupts the dance, and suddenly it’s very hard for a silly gay kitten to look anywhere else. And it’s both their hands, huntress and goddess, which lift and peel her own jumpsuit open, wriggling out of tight sleeves, letting it hang like a train over her tail.

And it is Dolly who lifts her hands and holds them behind her head, even as she makes frantic little squeaks and huffs, even as Six Stones makes a show of leading her around the room and inviting the fortunate few to fake a closer look at Dolly Hunters, the toy of the goddess. And it is Dolly who lifts onto her toes and then drops back down right in front of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, with Jade blowing a taunting kiss at the both of them. And the courage almost makes her melt through the floor, but she’s the one who adds a waggle to her hips as she’s tugged away.

Not that Six Stones escapes, mind you. Eventually, when Dolly’s almost dizzy with heat and fluster and exertion, the dancing is exertion, the goddess has her peel that glove off and wrap it around Six Stones’ throat, and lets her stumble in a borrowed jacket and a half-undone jumpsuit to go sit next to Angela (who tugs at her curls idly and playfully mocks the goddess who would make such a pretty little thing do such things, ai, stay here and you will be safe as long as you behave, precious meow-meow), as Six Stones finds herself in the clutches of a goddess whose thirst for domination is almost insatiable.

One cannot help but wonder whether the half-hour burlesque routine about Maintaining The Idol (with Bending Over, Getting Stuck, Running Out Of Washcloths, and Incurring Wrath) was really a spontaneous invention on the part of Smokeless Jade Fires, or whether she’d been practicing it, somehow, in secret. Don’t ask Dolly, though; she’s flirting like a meek schoolgirl with an alien who’s seen exactly what drives her wild.

(And by the end of the night, she will find herself a centerpiece once more, locked in a saucy embrace with Six Stones and the pole, as the goddess reminds the audience that they should behave, should they wish to avoid becoming entertainment for a great and mighty goddess…)

Breathless Dead

Howl From The Ashes was defeated near the end of the Tharassian Interregnum. Plundering Fang liked telling Little Ember the story, emphasizing how her legacy was that of a failure. That was a joke of a bloodline meant for little bitches who would never, ever lead the pack. And that much was true! Howl From The Ashes never led her pack, except by example. She was not a great leader of wolves, and when she was defeated, it was because she was standing alone.

Goldie told her the most important part of the story, though. Howl was defeated, yes. It took a dedicated pack-of-packs thirteen hours to overcome her, fighting alone for the glory of her alpha. Howl was untouchable, moving in negative space, flicking nets back at their casters, flinging spears through vehicles meant to run her down, trailing trophies in her wake. The challenge she presented ground the invasion of the Minosiam to a halt. None could pass her by.

She was paraded on Akhol in lieu of her alpha. She never flinched, and it is said (by Goldie) that no one could look her in the eye. She was offered a seat at the right hand of the Ceronian who would, by the end of the Interregnum, restore the Shogunate— and her refusal saw her spend fifteen years chained to his throne.

Fifteen years, until her Alpha struck in a heist which stole away only one treasure, and one treasure alone. To this day, her blood is a watchword for loyalty, for skill, and for romance. Nothing breaks the daughters of Howl From The Ashes, no matter how low they fall. And that is what Plundering Fang tried so hard to hide from Little Ember, and instead quickened in her blood.

---

“Like, why don’t you do it?”

An off-hand question, tossed out triflingly. But it latched onto Ember like a leech. She watched the stars play on the vaulted ceilings of the Plousios,, almost lulled by the serenading of far-off songbirds and the sound of repair crews (of which, oddly, there were many— but surely it was the hiccup of the hearth needing to be rekindled). She tried to hide from it, tried to convince herself that she could back Plundering Fang, instead. That she could be quiet and loyal. But still the burden lies in front of her, and no matter how she turned, there it was.

Letting either of them seize control of the Silver Divers would disrupt operations aboard the Plousios. Who is Sagetip but an untrustworthy vizier? Who is Plundering Fang but an unwise steward? Either one of them would set the course of Mosaic’s ship straight towards disaster. And there was no other viable candidate but someone who had a direct line to Mosaic, who had the friendship of not only the former Alpha but also a leashed Magi, who was— recently?— first aboard the ship.

True, some might think her strange, giving her ring odd looks, whispering behind her back of enchantment. Some might point out that she is descended from Howl From The Ashes, and doomed to lose in the end. And some might just be loyal already to another candidate.

And yet there is enough for her to begin planning her opening strikes. Carefully, of course— not to disrupt repairs or the operation of the luxuries of the ship…

Breathless Dead

There's two very good reasons that Taurus is speaking to Ember about this. One is that Ember (even as weirdly as she's been acting lately) is the proper link on the chain of communication. Telling her about the resignation is just as good as handing it into Mosaic personally. It is simply understood, and neither one of them has to acknowledge it out loud at all.

The other very good reason is that Ember gives fantastic hugs. She has a tendency to lift feet off the ground, arms wrapped around tummies, tail wagging furiously as she nuzzles into her newest oldest packmate.

"If your time comes around again," she says, eyes shining with enchantment and love, "it will be because you heard her call now. This is the most honorable thing to be doing, really! When you think about it! And- if I am, it's only because! I had you to vouch for me! You believed in me when I was lost, and alone, and sad, and you introduced me to this pack, this sorority of engineer-knights, and together we will show the entire universe the glory of the Plousios! You and me and Gemini and Plundering Fang and Shadows Calling and, and everyone!"

It is, frankly, impossible to be too sad in the face of that smile. Forlorn, maybe. Wistful, certainly. But Ember pulls her friend Taurus into the pack so that everyone can rejudge her, can measure her up as not-Alpha, can congratulate her and challenge her and smell her and how her scent has changed. Leadership will always have been with her, but the next chapter? That's for her to make, her and the whole of the Silver Divers. And if Ember is a bit more waggy and enthusiastic than usual, it might just be because she's going to remember the heart of the pack for the rest of forever! Nothing could erase something like that from her head, not even the fabled River Lethe!

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, ankles just as neatly together. When she shifts, which she is doing her best not to do out of concern for the huntress that carries her, she keeps them together. Her eyes linger on Whispered Promise’s face, but her lips are shut. Her jumpsuit clings to her curves, and who is to say whether Jade has adjusted it for her, or whether she knows herself dressed in tatters barely clinging to her frame?

”Well, Dolly? Are you?” Jade leers over Whispered Promise’s shoulder, looking insufferable. She has pivoted like a predator-goddess. If she cannot defeat her rival, she must act as if their alliance is obvious and effortless. It is almost enough to make Dolly roll her eyes. Almost. But Jade is supporting the back of her head, and her nails are running along the sensitive scalp, a reward for a good girl.

“Mmhm,” Dolly says, nodding. And then, because it’s just the two of them, and because she’s defeated, and because it was Mira who saved her from the Red Band: “‘h hhnnssn’d,” she continues, squirming a little in those warm arms, lips pursed, wrists unable to rise from her lap (not without tugging on a very particular rope). “‘h pmmss, Mrrr’h. mh n h’gfffsss,” with a demure nod to Jade, whose grin‘s corners are close to literally meeting at the back of her head. Then she lifts her head — Jade lifts her head — and shamelessly — wonderfully shamed — she nuzzles right into that milky river running down Mirror’s front.

And then they step out into the revelry. Streamercrackers pop overhead, raining ribbons down on the crews for batting hands and snapping jaws. Members of the cult, with knowing smiles, crowd in to congratulate the blessed huntress who was given the gift of victory by the goddess (who must, naturally, be smiling upon the victor), and to play with the curls of their priestess. Further muffled squeaks and purrs are difficult to make out over the popping, the laughter, the music playing out of portable speakers. Even when Jade hooks a little finger under that rope and gives a wicked little tug, gleeful in how Dolly’s eyes cross for a moment as she tries desperately not to embarrass herself in the middle of the revelry.

Of course, that’s only the start for Dolly. She doesn’t yet know that Nines has obediently set up a pole inside of the tent, or that Smokeless Jade Fires intends to seal her alliance with Mira Fishers by having her bride perform for both bands of huntresses. She has no idea that once the flaps are closed and they have some privacy, Jade will try using holoemitters to show the chosen elect the regalia of the high priestess, as well as the reason for her silence.

You will be shown this, Whispered Promise, as a sign of alliance and as a gift to you. You will be shown, Seven Quetzal, as a reward for your loyalty and as a punishment for losing. You will writhe around the pole, linked to it with chains of shadow, gagged in the colors of the goddess for the fortunate to see, showing off the flexibility and the obedience that you have displayed for the entire tournament. And you will meet eyes with Whispered Promise, who laps at melting ice cubes, and let out the kind of groan that will have Angela Victoria Miera Antonius looking away with her darkening cheeks in one hand.

Your dream will come true, Dolly. You will be as objectified tonight as if you were in the hands of the Red Band, but you will be safe in the hands of your goddess and your new mistress. And your performance will be remembered by everyone fortunate enough to attend.

You dreamed of this once, little gardener, beneath the sheets, tail swishing, fingers tapping on the keys. But you do not know it, not yet.

You will shine as your goddess sees you shine, dearest.

[The performance will be an 11 to Entice. Those present who are appealed to may offer strings and reactions to the Bride of the Goddess.]

Breathless Dead

Poor, poor Ember! The ink painted onto her has somehow not run, but the rest of her is a mess. After a certain point, sweat evaporates; her fur is matted and curling in strange patterns, and she smells like the ghost of a fire. (See how even her sisters offer her a wide, reverent berth.) Stripped out of her safety jumpsuit, her nudity is more striking than it is alluring; cunning eyes might note the ring of coral still on her finger. For a moment, her gaze passes over the desperate Magi, seeming far distant, her mismatched eyes pale.

Then her eyes focus on the figure before her, one coiling upon herself defensively even as she rubs her ringed fingers together. Her ears perk up, and she flashes that irrepressible smile that drew in the attention of Mosaic herself, tail wagging delightedly. "Oh, you silly darling," she says, her voice shifting to lovingly mimic the Azura's own. "There's no need to be worried! We are the loyal crew of the Plousios, and for those who respect our traditions, walk our corridors, and join in the labor, we welcome you with open arms!"

(And perhaps this will now be so. After all, Ember- the favorite of Mosaic, the Speaker for the Tyrant- is speaking, even as her sisters approach and help her with her honors, hiding her away from that lascivious serpentine gaze. Armor and silk, pearls and silver earrings, a sword returned to her side.)

The Ceronians close ranks around the Azura, smiles hidden but for the light in their eyes, as Ember approaches and cups the Magi's chin. "Your wish is my command," she says, all the more terrible for the earnestness, the sincerity, even as gloved hands trace her scales. "Come with us, o honorable scholar, and we shall open the secret side of the ship for you, once we have initiated you into the Crew." The way she says that makes it sound like she speaks of a priesthood, and it may yet be, one day hence.

When the Silver Divers leave the engine room to follow Ember into the hidden passages of the ship, the concealed compartments and the service tunnels, they do so carrying a squirming Azura, each one contributing to the lifting of the tail. Did you not know, Merya, what it is to ask the hospitality of the Daughters of Ceron? What it means to ask to be their guest? Did you not think to ask the people of Beri how the Silver Divers treat those who have fallen into their grasp?

Ember has no doubts. Memories overlap in her enchanted mind, but she still remembers with flustered fondness how she was initiated into the pack, and trusts in her new friend Merya to pass the trials just as winsomely, with just as much stamina and endurance, and with just as much submission to Taurus and Gemini- and to Ember, who speaks for Mosaic.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The soft mumble of Dolly's voice is only for her goddess and the knight. It is a shared bounty spread out between the two, and Smokeless Jade Fires is generous in this moment. But of course she is; Dolly's beauty is a token of esteem, and one that the two of them particularly enjoy flaunting to the elect. One stray curl bounces down between her eyes as she holds as still as she can, her dress sliding off her shoulder with aching slowness. She is, perhaps, even happier than if she had carried her goddess to victory.

"As I deem fit, Whispered Promise," Smokeless Jade Fires says, with a sway of the hip that almost produces an audible squeak from her priestess. Despite the fact that Whispered Promise has seen her nude, this is much more embarrassing, and thus much hotter. Her hands twitch with the urge to fly up to her face, to hide her expression and her plight. "If you desire negotiation, then you may ask permission from my high priestess to discuss matters further in our shrine. I may not have humbled you today, but she is still the one who speaks on my behalf, and the one who chooses who gets to speak." Even through her delirious, giddy mortification, Dolly still recognizes that her goddess does not sound petulant or sulky; she is treating with the Fisher as if bantering with an equal.

"But I have a feeling," she concludes, with an exhale that carries both mild regret and an irrepressible enjoyment of the fight, with the knowledge that she fights like a hunter, every time, "that Dolly will be more than happy to hear you out, if you can find the words..."

Breathless Dead

Ember hums happily, a half-remembered work song— which must be from Ceron, some round which ripples through the pack, yes. For it is the Ceronians who keep this spacefaring pleasure-palace alight. So what if there is so much to do that only a few of her sisters have come to join her in caring for the cavernous heart of this paradise, this oddly quiet furnace?

Head out of the clouds, Ember! Your lover needs you to focus! The right hand of the queen takes her time and carefully dons her ceremonial (and practical) armor, all green-grey metal without ornamentation. In Hestia’s heart, ornaments cannot survive; gilt would run, crystal would crack, and any carving into the surface of the material would be an unacceptable weakening, a stripping away of what might be a crucial layer of protection. (And yet it is not heavy enough to make her steps ponderous, and she moves fluidly in it. Mighty are the works of the craftsman, wise are the chemists and the engineers.)

Her tail wrapped around her stomach, she enters into the shrine with a polite bow of her head, a breath of praise and worship on her lips. It is not dark here, not anymore, not with the molecular bellows pumping hard. The walls are the color of predawn, and the gases that drag along the walls writhe like Azura coils, and the fusion spark’s steady light casts shifting, unreal shadows on all sides. But that’s all right. The spark’s what she’s here for.

The fuel is shaped into cubes, broken off one by one, and offered to the flame. It flows as creamy and white as butter once it leaves her fingers. She almost loses herself in the way that it runs down the gutters. Soon it will all be consumed, and the engine will be the purest light, the purest heat. Soon it will all be gone, and only energy will remain. But that’s too soon. Toss the last of the fuel into the pillar, stretching its limbs across the top of the sphere, and run, Ember, run!

Mosaic could have done this easily, if she were not battle-weary. (They say she threw all of Beri, and the thought isn’t real to Ember yet. She still imagines houses being pried up and being tossed one by one; no one has yet explained to her exactly how she has underestimated the woman she faithfully explores.) But it is to her consort’s credit that the gates do not stick as she hauls them open, and down the gutters run white serpents with tongues of fire, almost seeming to flick at the air as they vent— no, they tear the air down and rip out its vital gases, gorge themselves on heady chemical mixtures.

She laughs as she makes her way towards the exit, skirting the peril zone, averting her eyes from Hestia’s Spindle as it builds, reaction by reaction, into awe and splendor. If she were to look now, not even her faceplate’s automatic tint would be able to protect her from its divine glory. Her face is glowing, sunburnt, shining with sweat. Her body has aches running from her crest to her heels.

When she emerges, she must go from that wild run to a dead stop; she must stand and wait, armor groaning and sizzling, for it to drop to a safe temperature for removal. Until then, she will stand awkwardly still and bask in the applause from her sisters and that oh-so-friendly magi, aware that her touch is death until Hestia’s glory has passed from her shoulders. And she will hum happily, the words so close to the tip of her tongue, words that mean exertion and pack and peril. If only she could remember.