Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

"This here? Tonight? This has got to be the greatest show in the galaxy."

Ember has no concept of personal space. Not with Mosaic. Not when they finally have time to themselves for the first time since they left Beri. Not with her hands, which are full, but with her shoulder, her thigh, her head, her breath. And perhaps Mosaic snapping at her is part of it. What Ceronian wouldn't want reassurance, to smother bad feelings in affection, to make sure that the outburst is forgotten and buried for at least a night?

(That's the problem with dating a demigoddess. Her displeasure, especially when pointed at you, is terrifying. A campfire must be put out completely, not allowed to catch again while no one is watching.)

"Because we are here. All of us. Well." Her ears droop. "Almost all of us. I wish Dolce- you remember him? I wish he was here for the cooking, at least. Amazing seasoning. He always made infiltrating Beri a delight. I wish he'd made it out." She rests her head on that statuesque shoulder, sinks into the safety of the most frightening and most beautiful woman she knows.

"Sorry. Sorry. I just... I wish the Azure Skies could see this and understand. Why we're not going to die. Why we're going to win in the end. All of this. All of us. Because we have you, and we have each other, and we have-- are you actually not going to touch the flatbread?" Begging eyes are tactically deployed. Not for her, but for Mosaic's sake. "If you don't eat something, I'll, I'll... I won't kiss you, so there!" (It would be impossible for her to hold to this. But it's the only card she can think to play.)

Her sword lies beside her in its sheath, close enough to hand to draw, but set aside all the same. Fireworks crack silently overhead. She nestles the small warmth of her body into Mosaic's own, trying to ignore the yipping in the back of her mind, the one that says there's still something wrong with this perfect moment.

After all, isn't it?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly is a good girl. Isn't she just? Just such a good girl. In the middle of enemy territory, surrounded by danger on all sides, in the face of peril, she does just what she's supposed to.

"At ease," she says, putting one finger on the Terenian's lips, trying very hard not to melt straight into the floor. Next to her, Jade is grinning so widely that the top of her head might just fall off. "I got this, okay? You can put your hands on me after. For now, just sit tight." And here it is. The moment of truth. The moment where she has to be, briefly, not flustery over-her-head Seven Quetzal from the greenhouses but an actress pretending to be a smouldering-eyed goddess. Confident, in control of the situation, and using her body like a sword.

She looks the engineer dead in those dark Terenian eyes, so similar to Angela's, but younger, more like Dolly herself. She looks, and does not let go. "Do you think you can be a good girl and do that for me?"

"I am never going to forget this," Jade whispers, kicking her feet in delight as she sits on the control panel, absolutely giddy.

[9 on an Entice.]

Breathless Dead

Ember is silent for a little longer than usual, studying Mosaic. Some instinct itches in the back of her head, warning about the risk of losing a pack member to hidden injury or sickness. Because Mosaic is moving differently, even though underneath, she smells the same. The mismatch is disquieting.

"...we have some. I kept a bottle of something white. We don't have fresh seawater to add to it, but I think we'll be able to fill some vats when we arrive. Bucca!" The knight turns to the captive maid, a doe-eyed youth seized from the ranks of the Slitted's administrative corps, and tilts her chin up with one gauntleted hand. "Fetch~" (The rumble underlying her voice is playful, a warning that any impudence would be met with escalation, but done for Bucca's sake as much as for Mosaic's. It is necessary for the Alpha to be domineering and forceful, but the real Ember lies in the shallows underneath.)

"B-but I don't want to get into the details yet," she adds, turning her attention fully back to her lover. A gentle touch to the arm that holds the jacket together, a release of Affection, her purple-rimmed eyes looking into Mosaic's own. "I've got it. And you don't need to worry. You have earned this, sunlight. We're here, free and ready to fight, because you convinced us all to work together. You don't need to carry everyone's burdens tonight. Not tonight. Not here. I have everything under control, and once your new maid gets back with the wine, we can... go and watch the fireworks from somewhere private?"

She can't hide the wagging, or the hopeful note in her voice. It's been hectic ever since the Plousios launched, long nights alone, and details from before the fight against the Slitted are fuzzy and hard to hold onto, but they haven't had a night together, just for themselves. Not since the launch.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Something's wrong with the Zaldarian broadcast," the tech pants, half-leaning in the doorway. Poor thing! Given the speed with which she was obviously running over here, her messy bun is starting to come apart underneath her grease-smudged bandana and the zipper of her jumpsuit is losing its valiant battle. (A twisted knot peeks out over the top of the zipper, also fighting its own valiant battle.) "Did you not get--? The Empress's feed is stuttering and-- double-check the signal, come on!" She runs a hand across that vibrant green-and-teal bandana, zipper slipping a little more, and then squats to check the console's connections. "Something loose...?"

"More breathless," Smokeless Jade Fires says with a flick of her nails. Her outfit is Nouveau Sacrée, the half-jacket luxuriously embroidered, the skin-tight leggings trailing tassels, the top as much armor as it is clothing. "You ran up the stairs, didn't you? This is so important that they can't stop to think, and... now, get up now!"

With half an explanation on her lips, the technician suddenly straightens up and turns, colliding with the smaller Terenian and knocking her right into the console. "Shit," she hisses, only half-acting. "I, uh..." She makes a show of glancing between the console and the fallen Terenian on the floor, and then helps her up. Behind the woman's back, the technician deftly plugs a little stick into the console. Not that she'll be able to notice with those curves pressed up against her. "I'm so sorry," she breathes, looking her victim in the eye. "That looked like it hurt. Look, just take a seat, I'll get this handled. The Empress can bite my head off over this, 'kay?"

"What a delightful little actress you are, Dolly. But we've known that all along, haven't we? So good at hiding your shamelessness~" The goddess doesn't let any of her agitation show. She can focus on Dolly's senses, but Dolly can't keep an eye on both of them at the same time, and there's only so much that hearing can do. So, as usual, she focuses on what, on who she can control. "Now, get under there. Arch your back, make a show of getting in there, let them be mesmerized and never stop to wonder why~"

With a suggestive flick of the ears and quick blink, hips wiggling with long practice, Dolly turns away from her victim and starts working her way into the console, where she will discover the problem and "solve" it, leaving behind a dark crescent mesh connected to exposed circuitry. Foolproof. (And by the time she gets out, that zipper will be at her navel...)

Breathless Dead

Everything about the Beri Cultural Festival is, in one way or another, part of pack maneuvering. The very concept: a statement that the Plousios is celebrating the customs of the crew and Lady Mosaic's former home, but that it is the Silver Divers who are the defenders of those customs. The fried flatbreads and noodles, made under a salvaged sign which says DOL: proof that plunder-raids on the agricultural systems were successful and that Plundering Fang is on the back foot. The incense wreathing the entire festival in synthetic Celebration and Victory: evidence that Gemini is still listening to Ember, at least for now. The location, in the middle of Second Hall, stretching from wall to mottled wall in a sea of tents and poles and scavenged decorations: a demonstration of the Silver Divers' command of the ship. The prisoners attending to frying food and hosting games and carrying burdens for the grinning Ceronians: an object lesson in the hierarchy of conquest, and a boost to morale to boot. And the Ceronians themselves, dressed in silk and mail, Corvii-feather capes and glimmering veils: Mosaic's personal army, here to serve her with prejudice and initiative.

Ember herself has added a collar to her regalia, with a decorative chain connected to her left vambrace. She is bare of perfume, but the maid with her bears an oversized bouquet of small flowers, prizes from small plots of precious earth. Her skirt is daringly split, her eyes are painted the deep purple of a thick-churned nebula, and her lips beneath the veil are dark and rich. (The maid's skirt is daringly short, and her chains are as decorative and intended for use as Ember's own.) She bears a long knife at her side, and her left hand is sheathed in silver wire and stolen jewels. She feigns nonchalance, but her tail and ears betray her anticipation, her desire for praise, her hope that Mosaic might look at everything she did in service to the ship, in service to her, and see a heroine. The right choice to lead the Silver Divers for the sake of the ship, for the sake of victory, for the sake of her.

But the part that will show her love the most? The fireworks. Sagetip promised low noise, high color: just for you, Mosaic, so the crack doesn't hurt your ears, so that you can watch the falling embers with wide pupils and a twitching tail, so that you can be pleasantly overwhelmed and not clamping your hands over your ears. The favor owed for that isn't cheap, either. A gift, a spectacle, a date, and an attempt to recover as much of your town as possible.

Doesn't it tell you that you are loved, Mosaic? Doesn't it all say that Ember loves you? That your knight has been everything you could have asked of her?

Breathless Dead

284TH RING OF THE PEARL
Presiding Alpha: Ember
Dexter: Gemini
Sinister: Stoneribs
Augur: Sagetip
Biomancer: Whispering Potions
Quartermaster: Golden "Goldie" Fields
Chronicler: Clever Ant

FIRST DECLARATION: Lady Mosaic is to be incorporated into the pack Lares, alongside the Ancestors, Poseidon Tidefather, and Mars Wolfkeeper. Her instructions and guidance are to be given appropriate weight, and her iconography will join the shrines of the Silver Divers.

SECOND DECLARATION: full assumption of control of the voidfaring vessel Plousios. While it serves Lady Mosaic, it belongs to the Silver Divers, who will serve as her command crew and administrate the vessel appropriately.

THIRD DECLARATION: as the Plousios is in no condition to make war on the Azura as the Lares deserve to witness, the Silver Divers will seize and incorporate merchant shipping and Azura colonies for materials and labor until repairs are complete, at which point the Ring will ask the Lares for guidance.

FOURTH DECLARATION: a tenth of plunder to each member of the Ring, to be distributed as they see fit, and a double tenth to the Alpha. All else to be divided equally among the pack.

FIFTH DECLARATION: a summons for Plundering Fang, to present herself before the Ring and renew allegiance to the pack.

SIXTH DECLARATION: a feast to be held in the Third Hall in the name of Lady Mosaic, open to both clan and outsiders, so that the outsiders may understand their place aboard the ship in protected service to the Silver Divers and to Lady Mosaic, and that the Silver Divers might revel in victory.

SEVENTH DECLARATION: those initiated into the cult of the Plousios are to be treated as auxilia. They are not pack, but they are of service, and not to be tormented, save at the discretion of the Ring. All others are fair prey.

SUSTAINED by unanimous agreement. The harmonious pack is the strong pack. Hail the Lares! Hail Ceron!

Huntresses of Hybrasil

When Dolly returns to her quarters, she's chewing over her own thoughts. The distance between the hangar and the door feels like it slipped away, that she didn't truly experience it. The handle's real, and the way the door slides to one side, and the lights turning on automatically, as dim as twilight back home. Her pupils widen to drink in the half-lived room, and the emptiness. It's a terrible thing to come back to an empty house, isn't it?

But she knows the secret way to make it not empty. Although maybe there's more than one way, too.

"Jade?" She takes a seat on the couch, stretches her hands and feet, wiggles into a comfortable position. "I was thinking, would you like to have Ksharta or Angela over? I'd like to watch something. With buttered corn, and blankets, and maybe we can make it one of the big historical epics, like Sun Match? Or maybe a frontier romance?"

The goddess drapes herself onto the couch, and even that seems exhausted. After all, interaction for her is something that has to be intentional, all the time. She can't not think about her body, and how it exists in relation to other bodies, and how it only appears to exist at all. It takes her a little bit to render the effect of weight.

"Mmmngh," Smokeless Jade Fires, glorious hunt-goddess, murmurs. "Why should I share tonight?" Unspoken: can I even dominate tonight? Do I have the reserves to put all of my delicious brides-in-training in their places? Do I have the reserves to even appear to them, after being so thoroughly manhandled by the engineers of the Trickster-cult?

"Because I think they'll love you as much as I do," Dolly says, and offers a hand. "And it would be nice for us all to be together for a while. With you. Here. In blankets." And she pats her lap, an open invitation. She doesn't push, she doesn't impose, she doesn't reach out; she just is, and offers her time, her space, her attention.

"...I suppose it would be good for them not to wander too far. And you clearly need it." Jade dramatically sweeps her hair back. "After all, you were so deeply affected by that... link. Whatever will everyone think?" She flashes a tired smile.

"They already saw," Dolly says, trying her best not to look away. "I. Well. I... thank you, Jade. For, for this, for these chances, for making me show off, for being here with me, for everything. For the dances. And for the future. And..." She trails off into awkward kneading, realizing too late that she didn't have anything more on the tip of her tongue. "And anyone who deserves you in your glory deserves you in, like, in this. When you're the quiet moment on the hunt, too. This can be our camp."

Smokeless Jade Fires considers this for a moment. "...as a camp. Tonight. For you."

And the high priestess blinks adoringly at her goddess, and almost bounces over to the kitchen to prepare the buttered corn.

Breathless Dead

There are three broad classes of loot that the Silver Divers are capable of taking on: resources, captives and trophies. But resources, while necessary, are not exciting, and captives cannot be carried off in bulk. So it is trophies that the Daughters of Ceron crave most of all: trophies which demonstrate their glory, their prowess, and their right to conquer.

Ember needs trophies, true, and she does encourage her pack to grab what they will: fallen arms, eye-catching decorations, hard-won feathers. But more than any of these things, she needs to bring Beri back to the Plousios. So this is the edict of the Tyrant's Voice tonight, my girls: for every trophy you bring back, bring back something of Beri, too. Bring back collections of spoons, casks of wine, and bring back Dolce's stools and oven, while you're at it. Bring back gifts for the little people of the Plousios, which can flow through the would-be alpha's hands like water. Take these things which belonged to Mosaic's people and show our glorious leader how well we can attend to her wishes and whims. Gouge out all that was good from this place, which we never ruled but lusted after, and leave a ruined hollow in the sphere's heart.

And if you've still got room to carry plunder, toss a cute Servitor over your shoulder. The people of Beri are under Mosaic's protection, and it will be nice to have some spoils of war around to pour wine and carry lamps and be bullied by the Divers, proof of the victory here today. That ought to peel some of the pack off from Plundering Fang and Sagetip. Their first task will to be to carry the choicest trophies on Corvii shields to the Observation Hall on the Plousios, and there the Triumph will be held. There, the people of Beri will be invited to come and receive plunder from Ember's own hands, and to marvel at the halberds and the shields and the regiment colors that decorate the tent which will dominate the center of the hall, and the whole pack will be invited to make merry, to drink Azura wine, and to sing praise to Mars, to Mosaic, and to Ceron.

Absolutely nothing could ruin this moment. After all, Mosaic survived her battle, and will be quite pleased to see her wolf taking charge and thinking of her town. They haven't had a moment to themselves, but that's part of what their positions entail, and they'll...

They'll have time. Later. Once Ember has divested herself of arms and has finished being the leader that the Silver Divers need. Then there will be a place and a time for just the two of them to be, like on that moonlit hillside, and the thought of it sends shivers all up and down, like the tongues of little voidfoals. (The voidhorse stoically accepted the plunder in exchange for more rations, and a bridle helps lead it back to the Plousios.) Maybe she'll even be praised, even if she couldn't bring down Armatii.

And then Ember will present Mosaic with her very own new maid, seized during the fighting! Won't that be a perfect present?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly's doing her best. Her very, very best. She's handling this one solo, since the goddess is a sweaty heap of mewing in her bed, and she's got to get this engineer out of their collective hair. Even so, she looks frazzled, flushed, a bit of a mess, a figure of fun for the cult to snicker about. Oh, how lovely it must be to get the goddess's attention, so on and so forth.

But the question was asked, and so Dolly stops and considers it properly, and something swims forth from the river of thought. Like any good Hybrasilian, she snatches it up immediately, lays it open, and feasts.

"What can you tell me about Mirror?" She blinks, slow, comfortable, despite her dishevelment. It's intentionally vulnerable, disarming. "Since you work with her. For her. With her?" A cock of the head: a question underneath the question. "After all, we are standing together. I thought I knew her, but the more I look, the more confusing she gets..."

Breathless Dead

There is no sound out here, not in the way that Ember can use. So the dance plays out in silence, in three dimensions, amidst the debris. Her heart rate normalizes as she opens up her belt pouch, slips a ration cube free, feels more than sees the tongue wrap around it, black and white on white, and it vanishes into that mouth full of inward-pointing teeth. The vast, membranous wings beat with exaggerated care, keeping the voidhorse in place.

Another cube, between forefinger and thumb; another offering. She drifts underneath, trails her fingers gently along its neck. This is a thing of sleek muscle. There is a scar against its shoulder, just before the wing structure. The slow wingbeat threatens to dislodge her; she clings like one of the newly hatched, and clambers her way under the stomach. Before it can roll into a ball and try to get more, she is working her way up, onto the back, behind the wings, and she tosses the third cube towards the ship.

There is no fear in her heart, just serenity, just admiration, just awe. No one ever told her about creatures like this. No one told her how much beauty there could be in between the stars, too.