Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Of course it is. It's both: the highest confidence and the thrill of possibly losing. It's the statement. The implication. The refusal to admit that defeat, that being touched without permission, is even an option at all. The growl in the throat at the thought of waddling up to the Red Band in a body that is built for defense, that admits fear and recognition of their capabilities, and the thought of dancing through missiles and cannon fire in weightless space, of being the stealthy huntress that the goddess deserves, of showing the Red Band what it feels like to be ambushed unfairly, of having to rely on Jade completely for victory, and the knowledge that if either of them failed they'd end up in the hands of a jilted pirate, and the very threat gets her pulse racing, and because, now, backing down would mean weakness in the face of an ally, would mean acknowledging the trickster's cunning, would mean losing.

"That is the kind of body we desire," Dolly manages to say without melting into the cushion. "One where there is no room for failure. We know the stakes, um, ma'am, and... we want to prove that she, that we, can still win. That we can pick when and where to fight, now that we're not in a tournament. I believe in her."

"And I, in you."

"Also," Dolly blurts out, leaning forward as much as she can, "ferns. Embossed? I just think ferns would be a lovely motif."

Breathless Dead

Ceron! Ceron! Ceron!

But it's not Ceron that provides Ember's tactics here. No. It's stories. Half-remembered fragments of myth. Bright excitement is in her eyes as she gives the order: rear ranks, cords and scavenging. Anything that can clack together. Instruments, found in cabinets and stands. Horns, if you can get them. The clay tiles, the fractured pavement, the flutes and whistles and drumsticks that brought the people of Beri joy. Quickly, now: every moment wasted is another awful slash across someone's face, a crumpling shield, and a moment where the Knight might fall.

"Company," Ember yells, beginning to swing a cord with two clay tiles at either end, clacking ratatatat, ratatatat, ratatatat, "ROAR!"

The cacophony is almost deafening, almost a solid thing, interspersed with howling as a reverberating bass line, drilling into the heads of the Armatii. Stymphalia, Stymphalia! Deep in your heart, you know this: that this is a thunderstorm, this is a predator, this is a disruption in the air, this is no more thinking, this is dismay. The Daughters of Ceron still communicate as a roiling mass of scents below--

No, rising, too. Leaping off rooftops, tossing up lassos, digging pearl-handled knives into caught legs, dragging down these monsters of the air down into the phalanx like ants swarming over a broken-winged sparrow. There is blood, and much of it comes from bloodied mouths, deep-pierced breasts, ligament-torn limbs, but there are still more, still more, still more, and the pack works together, after all, wounded being pulled away, caught as they fall, but these monstrous alpha predators all descend alone and writhing.

Ember leaps, still swinging her castanets, her knife in her other hand, and when she lands it's one swinging around the throat and the other right in the spine between the thrashing wings. Mosaic, the Silver Divers cannot, will not follow: you must continue alone. This is knife-work, hate-work, a roiling mass that threatens to drive your own ears through your skull. So run. Run, while the Daughters of Ceron raise a din so loud that it might just crack the tiles beneath their feet.

[Overcome: 7.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"This is our body," Dolly says, as if it is the most simple thing in the world. "It doesn't need to be a machine made for winning fights, it needs to be a machine that moves when we move, that runs silent, that can... do... things." Her ears droop a little bit, and she looks bashfully off into the distance, trying to avoid looking at either the idol or the engineer. "Things. Like building. Or breaking. Or chasing. Or hunting."

The thought of the chase makes Jade purr. She sits on the back of Dolly's chair, drapes her legs down, runs her fingers through her priestess's scalp. "Yes. Good girl. We need this to be a Huntress. A Huntress of Hybrasil. No one will see us coming, and no one will be able to evade us."

"Speed," Dolly says, trying not to let her eyes cross. "Speed, and, and stealth, and something that will let us, more powerful catches, disabling and not destroying, cutting out comms, like, with Angela, and..."

"And something that will be the equal of the Red Band," Jade trills. "Yes. Now that will be a hunt worthy of me, won't it, Dolly? And I'm sure that we can put their plunder away to better uses, but the glory, the victory, and..." She pulls Dolly's head back with one hand over her mouth. "And the danger~"

There's no such thing as too much victory. She's beaten the Red Band once, and now she can make sure that victory is complete, over and over again. And the thought of facing them is making Dolly's heart beat in her chest like a delicious little rabbit. What a good, loyal, beautiful girl she is.

She pushes Dolly's head back towards Slate, but not before stealing a hungry little kiss, her thighs squeezing possessively.

Breathless Dead

There are, in the end, three reasons that Ember does not follow Mosaic as a shadow, does not bound out of the water and vigorously shake herself dry, does not chase after the Savior of Beri.

The first is that Mosaic can self-evidently take care of herself. She tamed the pack! She threw a town! She is going to dismantle anything in her path and she doesn't need Ember getting in the way of targeted, focused destruction, a path being torn straight to wherever Dyssia might be languishing. The second is that Ember's the one that the pack is following, the alpha-in-potential, and if she abandons the battle in the drowned decks, so will her sisters.

The third is that in her heart, her battle-instinct knows that her task is to draw attention away from her lover, the Queen, and scatter the enemy's cognition into shards. So to the work, then. The pack fights in sudden knots, three to every one, choosing exactly where they want to concentrate their strength. Ceron. Ceron. Ceron!

Soon enough the Corvii are fleeing the waters. Good. The pack tears through the ship's underbelly, damaging what they can, venting pipes into the water, exposing delicate mechanisms to the salt, and then, oh, and then...

And then they are a dozen cells, moving through corridors slick with water, howls echoing and reverberating through the veins of the Azura's weapon. Where scent won't work for communication, the howling will. This is no longer their ship, those void-hardened blackbirds, this is a hunting ground of the Daughters of Ceron. Isolate. Flush them out. Seize prizes. Once past the feeble attempts to reform lines and set up defenses, they'll be in the guts.

So many prizes. So little time. Pick out the best ones, sisters.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"She was a hunting model," Dolly says, a bit dreamily. One thumb rubs the other as she looks up at the body which has defined her lover since her birth. "Originally. Speed, stealth, comms. It was meant to pair with jackals, and when they birthed the goddess, they thought they were making a jackal weave. It's a terrible model for this, isn't it?"

The laugh bursts out of her like a knife-toothed fish. "That's awful! But it's true? I shouldn't have... but you know it, too, don't you? We should have had something that had firepower, given how important that is for these fights, but she's so stubborn when it comes to this." Her tail baps longingly against one ankle. "I should be able to get Forests to send you some of our specs, but I don't really know much about that sort of thing, how much engine power one of these frames has against another one, and Jade always said that she'd provide the motiffff."

Her ears flick up. Her eyes glance to the side. She settles back in her seat, hands in her lap, makes a shaky little biscuit.

"It's a Gen96 Lifuens, Fifth House, Cloud Aspected. Do you think you can remember that, dearest?" Smokeless Jade Fires is wearing an oversized jacket, a pair of striped tights, and jade-rimmed sunglasses. This is the entirety of what she has chosen. Her thumb rubs against Dolly's jawline, and her teeth are numerous as she watches her silly little bride struggle to keep her composure. "Gen96. Lifuens. Fifth House. Cloud. Aspected."

"It'saGen96LifuensFifthHouseClouded," Dolly blurts out, then takes a deep breath- then squeaks. "AsPECted! Cloud Aspected!!"

Jade turns the key and rests the padlock between Dolly's palms. "There we go. Good thing I picked a kitten with brains and beauty. Now, try not to squirm too much. Whatever would Whispered Promise's engineer think if she knew how much of a feast for the eyes you are right now, Dancer of the Sacred Pole, Seductress of the Faithful, Little Miss Stuffswell?"

"It's so funny that you think it looks like a dancer though because that's how Jade trained me to be good at piloting her the way that she wanted me to and after the um the performance you remember because you were there obviously well it's one of the votes for what we do next and it's not like anywhere near fighting the Red Band or building a temple but it's just so funny that it, and you, and pointing out?" She doesn't break eye contact, though her ear does a little proximity twitch. "I suppose! That's meaning something? Anyway! Do you have questions? More questions? Yes? Maybe? I can. Think? About the answers??"

Breathless Dead

"One Ceronian cannot win against an Azura," Ember says, fingers curling around the curved hilt of her sword, thumb running along the whorling pattern embossed on the grip. Around her, at least half of the pack, gathered by the cashing-in of favors or out of enthusiasm for the destruction of the Sphere. They would need someplace to raid soon; their finery, pearl and silk and gleaming scale, was beginning to grow thin and unfashionable. A wise captain is wary of letting a pack's fashion grow stale. How else were they to demonstrate their ability to innovate, or their discerning eye? Treating that Azura to a hearty welcome had kept many instincts at bay, but the desire to envelop and overwhelm was clear to scent. Dominationdesire is heady, earthy, sullen, demanding something to change. "But a wise knight draws out pursuit across the ford and into the narrow valley, and an entire pack can... well, Merry, why don't you tell us what happens next~?"

The attention of the pack contracts for a moment as a shiver of Rightness runs up Ember's spine. She hasn't yet figured out what, perhaps, she might blame Merry Merya the Magi for, but how strange it is that she feels hardly a twinge of guilt as roving hands explore the coils of the pack's newest member. The pack can hardly be blamed for how little they could spare for her to wear, but it's absolutely Merya's fault that she can't seem to provide a comprehensible answer. After all, Azura already talk too much, don't they? The Daughters of Ceron are so, so helpful, and so, so friendly. How pretty she looks with her arms trussed behind her, her dark-painted eyes fluttering, huffing through the thick layers of former Azura finery.

An exhalation of Command, scorched with ozone, brings some gazes back to Ember, who is standing on top of her plover's outstretched hand. Sometimes, a little height is necessary, isn't it? Think of how everyone looks up to Mosaic! And it's vital that she have the attention of at least some of the Divers, given what she is about to ask them. No, not ask. If she asks, she will lose.

"What happens is that we flank, and overwhelm, and claim our prizes!" The gesture at Merya causes further laughter among the hungry wolves. The glance at Thoughtful Flask almost manages to hide her nervousness, her desire for victory, her desire for glory, her desire to earn her place beside the Queen of the Plousios. Jove's kiss keeps racing through her blood, and the need to win, to be a Good Girl, to not be shamed, is barely restrained. "And an Azura Knight has followed us across the ford and into the narrow valley, and even if she's surrounded by a bunch of blackbirds with oversized sticks, we are Ceron! We are Ceron!"

She throws her head back and howls, and the answering chorus resounds, rolling from plover to plover (and drowning out Merya's tiny squeaks completely). Her sword is a hair's breath from shivering out of its sheath by itself. She pants through her veil, runs her hand through her hair, and barely manages to keep herself together. From the last to the first, how she has risen! How she will rise! Mosaic, witness her!

"We will claim our prizes from her closets, her vaults, and her crew! We will bring her back to grovel before our Tyrant! We will scatter the blackbirds across the waves to spread word of our glory! For Mosaic! For the Plousios! For Ceron!"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It would be a crime not to acknowledge the squeak that Dolly makes as she is squeezed. It is by turns surprised, admiring, scandalized, and breathy. No wonder that she is the prize of a goddess, the desired trophy of a band of infamous pirates, and the heart of a harem, when she can make noises like that. And the way she bushes up, and her eyes go wide! She's lucky Jade isn't here to torment her over it. Or, no, she does make a glance to one side as if expecting her wife's smug smirk, fingers winding about the length of a leash.

But underneath, that sharp little mind is working and worrying at the thought of what the three (four? more?) of them could do together that isn't fighting, that isn't hunting down pirates, that isn't using Jade's strength and her grace to do things that other people can't. (But Whispered Promise, she can. Maybe it's all right to trust her.) Maybe Jade could go on circuits of the colonies, use her strength to perform great feats, dispense justice, and... oh, no, that just goes right back to fighting, doesn't it? But how else could the two of them create change, really create change, while also seeing the universe? What lies outside of fighting?

And would Jade be happy without fighting? The thought of becoming a little botanist again seems laughable, not when the universe is wide open and waiting for them. (And not when, she selfishly must admit, the thought of being a, an icon, an artist's model, the subject of attention, grows more and more. Would it be the end of the world if she dressed a little more... desirably? Accepted that she wants to be seen, to be wanted, to be... that even now, she still wanted to hear that the Red Band had posters up of her?) But that's hardly the sort of thing that you can choose to do as a high priestess, because surely Jade's will is what really matters? (But Jade... would do whatever made her Dolly happiest.)

So what Dolly eventually ends up doing is creating a cult-wide poll on what she should propose to the Great Hunting Goddess, Smokeless Jade Fires.
[ ] Hunting down the Red Band
[ ] Roving force of justice
[ ] Return to Hybrasil and make a temple complex
[ ] make garden paradise planet??
[ ] add ideas below please??

Breathless Dead

All of Ember’s confusion about the way that the world has changed since she departed on her Plover suddenly sharpens to a point, and the point is the sudden threat of disappointing a superior. More than a superior: Mosaic.

“We were separated during the fighting,” she says, ears low, tail tucked against one knee, eyes tactically pitiable. The very model of a demure knight sorrowfully bringing back news to the Daimyo. “She bought us time, but I didn’t see—“

“That’s because you were totally ganging out there, Embs,” Goldie says with a toss of her head, interrupting. Her hair is damp against her forehead, and there’s a bit of holmganga in her eyes herself. “She got flocked. Traded herself for the ship.”

“Oh,” Ember says, trying to read Mosaic’s face. “I… I blew up a sphere,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder. “Cut so many cables.”

“She did. It’s bad, but it bought us all time to scatter, like, off to regroup? Like Ember said?” The pack is coalescing around Ember, the remaining pilots backing her up. As one, we move. As one, we retreat.

Then Ember dredges more words out from the bottom of her stomach. “You want to go back for her,” Ember says. As a statement of fact. But just saying the words makes her stand that much taller, makes her look just a little more like Howl from the Ashes. Her hand cups the pommel of her sideknife.

And she did keep that ribbon, Mosaic. Really, she did. It’s burnt, sure. But it’s what brought her back. To here. To you. Stopped her from overextending and being caught out herself. Is that seen? Is that understood? Or will you stare down the Speaker for the Tyrant until she scrambles to bring it back to you?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It is important to understand that when Dolly nods her head in agreement that she knows what a hippo is, what she is actually picturing in her mind’s eye is some sort of omnivorous crocodile. There is absolutely no doubt in her heart.

“Well,” she says, hesitantly, “I should argue for our hunting, right? Our behemoths, big enough to feed entire villages. Our deep-water leviathans. We are small, and everything else is big, and we had to be the best at catching big things.” She plays with Angela’s curls for a moment, trying and failing to work up the courage to tug on them, to convey the message, to remind her of being caught by two clever kittens. “But. It’s not? Not for me. It’s our biodiversity. There are still species of insect and sub-genuses of plant on our world that remain undiscovered simply because there’s so much to catalogue. To discover. From the tallest trees, like your skyscrapers, to the smallest fungi caps hiding in cave systems, and we still don’t know everything about them, either, no wonder that early religious practice focused on caves as places where it was possible to commune with the world herself, and once our ancestors were down there far enough, tucked into a niche in the rock, covered from above and behind, they would cover their heads with a blanket and fast in order to understand the powers that are older than the world, in darkness and hunger, and all around them, not even perceptible through their cheeks, rich veins of crystal and moss and— actually, did you know that there’s been a breakthrough in growing moss for mass consumption based on Yellow Bean’s research in the X’mot Complex? She’s been able to hybridize strains that should be able to thrive in orbital gardens, looking for both nutritional value and production output, and we’re talking vacuum-sealed, bottled, dried and seasoned, and as viable in a personal garden as on prefab satellite gardens orbiting new colonies! And that’s just scratching the surface! I’m really excited about Doctor Gentleness’s work in synthetic proteins that might be able to replace the need for meat in the diet, which is, as you know,” she says with complete sincerity and faith, “a major logistical issue, because it limits our ability to be self-sufficient on planets with completely alien biospheres if we have to import prey species or rely entirely on the flash-dried stuff you get on stations. I’d bet that one of the Red Band might go an entire year without eating something that hasn’t been cured, dried, frozen, or otherwise prepared for long-term travel, which means they also need iron supplements on a semi-regular basis because they’re just not getting the full nutritional spectrum without having it fresh, and that’s why that soup they gave me was so unbearably spicy, they have to add strong flavors to compensate for the fact that we’re not getting any of the blood, and…”

Moss, blooming in the dark where nobody sees it, brought up into space. Made crucial, made more, hybridized with other strains, thriving, glowing. Beautiful if you understand it. Capable of growing anywhere.

This might be the most that Angela has heard from Dolly in a while. So often she wants to be stopped from being like this, breathless, lost in her own thoughts— but it’s not hard to imagine what that looks like when the topic isn’t so wonderful. When she’s worried, thinking just as fast as this, or when she’s flustered, trying to navigate what’s expected of her, or when she’s feeling small in the shadows of titans. Small wonder, too, that she dreamed of being made interesting, of being put on a pedestal, of being obsessed over, of someone putting her on display just as she might cup a handful of moss and explain why it should be loved.

And then she met her own gardener.

Breathless Dead

Ember does not walk over to her Mosaic. She runs. She greets her Queen, her lover, her captain, with a kiss, standing on the tips of her toes, hot, hungry, alive, needy, excited, excitable, barely restraining herself enough to stop her from bowling the taller woman over. But she does, just enough.

“We won,” she pants, her tongue pink, her teeth white. “Now we can regroup, prepare, gain ground, and…”

She trails off. Blinks. Looks around. When she flexes her fingers, sparks of bluewhite static hiss between them, remnants of her flight suit drawing off excess. “…what happened? Where’s all the, the, the banners, and the statues, and why is the marble cracked and scuffed and— and why are there crabs in here, Mosaic?”

She looks around, baffled, her old inkmarks charred away. “What happened to our ship?”