Thanqol

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Commence.

The discussions and planning sequence was out of the way. That meant it was time for autonomous problem solving. That meant, too, that it was time for music. Her poison of choice was soothing trance music; beat rising, soaring, and then fading away as it escalated again. She felt the tick-tick-tick of the beat in the back of her mind and let that set the pacing.

Co-ordination problems were inevitable when she was not networked directly. She'd pulled a solution from old heist movies she loved - the synchronization of the watches. Wristwatches were insufficiently in vogue for her to add them to her uniform, but by putting all of her drones on the same beat then they were able to sense when time came for handoffs, transfers and formation changes. It helped her think in human terms; in rhythms, conversations, the escalation that happened over the course of every encounter. To November, moving through a building full of humans was something as alien as dancing was to those humans, and so music helped focus her mind and keep it a thing of games and rhythms.

And she was good at this dance.

She had deliberately put the cabinet at a space inefficient angle in the elevator to reduce the number of people who could fit into the space with her, and then concentrate four drones shoulder to shoulder near the entrance to make it seem like the lift was full. The first two stops saw people just awkwardly wave them down, intending to get the next lift. The third stop was with Baba Uvsenski, though, and polite stonewalling Would Not Do.

Baba Uvsenski was a Template - an Android who had impressed her manufacturer sufficiently to commission an entire line of replicas in her image. Her marketable skill was dictatorship - Baba Uvsenskis could be found in the managers office of coffee shops and fast food joints around the Ring, browbeating and intimidating minimum wage staff into meeting KPIs. This was the original. Steel grey cybereyes, selected from millions for their lack of empathy, met eyes of black, yellow, white and blue.

Baba Uvsenski was going up, November was going down - but Baba's hands were filled with large and heavy shopping bags. Her hand was coming up to snap at November for attention, but the music beat was already rolling and Black and Blue were both stepping out of the elevator. They both waited a moment for the music to sync and then bowed in perfect unison, smooth enough to give them the illusion of being networked. Their Headpattr cat ears glowed. "Good afternoon, Baba Uvsenski. Can we assist you today?"

There was no kinship between November and Androids. No better sign of that than seeing the little light come on the edge of Baba's sculpted-in wifi connection. She had a direct mental line to the internet, a setup that to November's eyes resembled nothing so much as building a sewage treatment plant on a hill above the water supply. "Hmm? You know me?" snapped the old machine irritably. All Baba Uvsenskis looked old, but this one actually was.

"Of course, ma'am," said Blue. "You were awarded a lifetime Earscratchr rank by Headpattr as a thank you for your viral tweet thread 'Six Simple Habits To Enforce Proper Timeclock Use By Staff'," she said. Tip One: replace all in store timepieces with analogue clocks. Modern children are inexperienced at reading them, and after you catch them fudging the numbers a few times they'll start to err on the side of caution.

"Then why can't I ever find one of you horrible little catgirls when I need one?" said Baba Uvsenski. There was the rub with the Earscratchr program - it entitled you to free service from any passing Headpattr maid you verbally addressed, but it was the maid's responsibility to find someone to cover whatever job they were going to miss or face fines from the company. As a result, a Headpattr maid would turn on heel and walk around the block if they even got the vibe that an Earscratchr might be in the area, usually while uploading the dangerous location to the union's message board.

"With our new app, arranging a personal maid couldn't be easier!" Blue recited from advertising copy. "If you would like, I can walk you through the process -"

"But I have to pay if I book through the app!" said Baba Uvsenski.

"Good news!" said Blue. "We are having a promotion right now for ten percent off -"

"Be silent, child!" said Baba harshly. "Говёный! Whole service is scam."

Blue smiled and nodded.

"Carry these up to my flat," she said, shoving her large shopping bags at the two of them.

"Of course, Baba," said Blue demurely. Her elbow 'accidentally' grazed Black's as she reached for the bags, prompting the more sullen drone to do the same. Blue's eyes were laser sharp as they met Black's: Play nice! Black's cheekglow raised and she looked away in a slight huff.

"Hmmm," said Baba, observing the exchange. "You are girlfriends, yes? Which one of you wears the pants?"

"I do, Baba," said Blue immediately, even as Black's mouth dropped open in flabberghastment. She kept her smile serene.

"She is pouty," said Baba. "Pouty wife is no good. Always stands back, makes faces about every decision. Trust me, dump her, find yourself a nice girl."

Black's stunned personality matrix is trying to catch up to this new addition to Greatest Anime Betrayals Of All Time, but Blue is continuing to smile and nod. "You don't think I can improve her?"

"HA!" laughed Baba. "No. I had pouty wife, useless! Children always think they want a tsundere, they think it is cute. It is not cute, not in long term. Submissive wife takes dildo just as well and cooks you dinner afterwards. You have tongue, yes?"

"Yes, I have full taste sensors," said Blue as Black self combusted in the background.

"Original design or modification?" said Baba.

"Original with the chassis, Baba,"

"Let me see," said Baba. Blue opened her mouth, and without asking, Baba reached in to grip her tongue and pull it out to examine it. Despite looking normal from a distance, Blue's tongue was actually extremely long, precise and flexible, and lined with dozens of small black synthplastic intake ports. With it she could lick the last drop of champagne in a long fluted wine glass and analyze the contents for poison.

"Unbranded!" said Baba in surprise, releasing the tongue. "This is custom work!"

"Yes Baba," said Blue, not commenting on the rough handling even as Black loomed behind Baba, contemplating violence. "I was a custom manufacture, with a taste palliate and digestive system designed as a perfect mirror of my commissioner's. What she liked, I like."

"Говёный!" said Baba. "Ugly business! Food builds character. Imagine a world where this technology takes off, hmm? Everyone just sets sensors to appreciate nutrient sludge. Thousands of businesses go bankrupt overnight, poof!" just as she made the gesture the elevator door rang. Baba got in without breaking conversational stride, Blue and Black trailing behind her. "And you know what happens to economy then? Agriculture collapses, logistics collapse. Citizens lose moral fiber. коза, I need to rearrange my share portfolio if this nightmare is on the table."

"Yes, Baba," said Blue.

"Besides," said Baba. "With tongue like this you can have any girl. No need to put up with that ungrateful one."

"Yes, Baba," said Blue with a smile.

With a ding they arrived at Baba Uvsenski's apartment. They hauled in her bags - and then had the door slammed in their faces at exactly the second that Blue started to hover like she might be asking for a tip. Blue and Black looked at each other, Blue grinning openly as Black stared.

"You wear the pants!?" said Black.

"Did I stutter?" Blue asked politely.

"I! You! You are a nerd! You are all theory! I am the top secret combat prototype!"

"I am all about theory," said Blue, "but your 'combat powers' are still a theory."

"I am working on it! I have a gun now!"

"And that makes you better at taking dildo than submissive wife?"

"Aaah!" said Black, putting her hands over her ears. "How the fuck did you put up with that?"

"Maybe I just don't have anything I need to prove," said Blue.

"She grabbed your tongue out of your mouth! I'd have bitten her fingers off!"

"I let her grab it," said Blue. "I wanted her to see. Did you see her expression when she realized how long it was? That's how you make someone feel insecure."

"You know," said Black, rubbing her temples as they got into the elevator together. "I'm starting to suspect that we might be a degenerate."

"Black, darling, pouty wife," said Blue. "We have been cut off from the internet for four months now. We are a degenerate in withdrawal."

[10 and 11 on the dice, clean getaway]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The Immaculate of Wood said:
Fear not the ruined places.
Though they were made by tyrants, they are hollow.
Though they are grand, they decay.
Though monsters make their homes there, they cannot compete with the wolf in the forest
and the roc upon the hill.
A tower is doomed to fall but a rice field can grow forever.

Fengye takes a contemplative breath. She has been trained for this, too. In that breath, Kayala, you see the calm of the dreamless.

There's hunger, of course, below the surface. There is craving too - that fierce sapphire gleam in her eyes. Princesses, knights, adventure - some part of her burns for those things, so fiercely you almost think she'll break at any moment. But the calm rolls in, tranquil and tranquilizing, the discipline of one trained by the Dominion to never dream. The Immaculate Way promises advancement only in the next life, and so Fengye's heartbeat slows. Her eyes are cool and steady. She knows she cannot have what she wants, and so sets those wants aside to be free of the pain they bring.

"It is as you say, Lady Flower Knight," said Fengye politely. For a long moment it seems like she might just leave it at that, but then, almost by mistake, a few more words spill from her lips.

"But, as you asked, I have another suggestion. While occultism takes the primary role in this castle's architecture, this is also a military installation. This means that they will have stables, likely within close range of the main entrance. And... were I to be in a saddle..." she hesitates again, shyness and modesty in equal parts. "...then I would hopefully become an asset to you in your quest."

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

"The story says I killed my father," said Zeus. "I'm surprised by now you still think that's all there is to it."

You see her at work across the battlefield. It is Zeus' to judge victory and defeat. It is Zeus' to fill hearts with fear or courage. Though Athena and Ares may posture, demand, and impress, it is Zeus' final decision in each moment who shall have the field. And in each moment, she decides. Sometimes cool and calm, sometimes brilliant and excited, sometimes lackadaisically or contrarian, sometimes with profound wisdom. But always she decides. Always she is confident in her decision. How? How can she know what she's doing is correct?

"I mean, I certainly struck the man," she said. "But that's not any help to you. You did that already. You ruined him, made him permanently aware he posed no physical threat to you. You damaged his ego and sense of self worth, you saw him cast down and humiliated. And here you are! Still in his power! Fat good that did you, right? I mean, you weren't wrong, it just didn't fix the real problem."

She picks up an Alcedi warrior lying broken-winged on the ground, shivering and coughing as her wounds struggle to close. She cradles her in her arms. "You ever think, Alexa, that these are your siblings? Old Liu Ban created them, same as you. He engineered their entire species and made them his trusted servants. Here they still are, seeming to smile even as he devours them. The machines on Baradissar, too. All broken scions of the same old bastard, same as you." She coos gently to the Alcedi, pressing a hand to her stomach until the girl slips into a deep coma. She sets her down, bloodstains invisible against the indigo of her toga.

She walks through the battlefield on bare feet. Her hair is wild and tangled, brown and curling, only point of fixture the subtle silver wreath upon her head. She is in the prime of her life, old enough to have muscles, will, and a handsomeness. She has a maturity now; not the easily offended pride of royalty, but an understanding of infinite capability.

"I think it's because, even when I struck him, I was still his son," she said. "He kind of always expected that. He expected me to become him, and that was his real trick. The others... they were puppets, objects, but I was something real enough to live vicariously through. To inherit his world and his puppets. He made me strong, you know? Strong enough that if Hephaestus forged an unbreakable chain, and upon one end weighed all the gods and all the worlds, and upon the other was my arm alone, it would not be I that moved. That might was his love. Even patricide couldn't undo it, because that was just a use of the gift he gave me."

She looked up into the heavens of the Anemoi. Kaeri and Alcedi warflocks impact on each other, light and dark, shadow and thunder, the spectacular war of the kingfisher and the owl. Bodies fall soundlessly onto the plastic-like linoleum of the assassin ship.

"No, what broke my father's heart was that I cut my siblings out from within him," said Zeus. "I dragged Poseidon, Hera, Hestia, and darling Hades out of that dark he expected me to maintain. I offered to divide the realms between them. I honoured them, their decisions, their kingdoms. I couldn't be rid of his might, but I could be rid of his belief in it. And when I did, that was when he cursed me and said that I was not his son."

She walked over to the a porthole and looked out at the glowing violet Azura star, away from the turbulence of the battle. She frowned pensively. "And to this day, I still regret not telling him 'That's right, I am your daughter'. It would have been the perfect... ah well. Live and learn."

Vasilia!

"Why?" said the Furnace Knight. There was genuine confusion there. "The Rail is a difficult weapon to master. The level you have learned it to does not provide you with significant advantage. You would clearly be an exceptional warrior if you trained in the techniques native to your Empire. Why study a martial art from Skies you have never visited, for a weapon you did not possess, designed for a physiology alien to your own?"

He paused. "Unless you are an Azura, who has patterned yourself into bipedal shape. Then things make sense."

Dolce!

You see a shadow appear in the doorway behind Jil. Her ear rotates - she hears it too. It's the singer who was at the feast - Beljani, sleek as razors in her coiling dress, holding a strange hollow silver wand delicately between two fingers. She sees Jil. "There you are. Come on, give me the ring, we can still finish the plan," she said.

And Jil has a choice to make.

She looks right at you. All the power is on her side in this moment; she has an assassin at her back and with a gesture she can make you a target. But she hesitates for a moment, caught in the light of rival gods.

"Bella has tried every kindness she could," said Jil, quietly, below the assassin's hearing. "She sought to win Princess Redana back with persuasion and nonlethal means. She has had these assassins since the beginning and never unleashed them, despite her mercy resulting in failure after failure. Now her back is against the wall, the decision is out of her hands and failure is not an option. Even now she has risked everything on the most merciful path she could find. I have never seen anyone strive as hard as her while carrying as much weight as she is. And I cannot let her down."

[Roll to Finish Her with Wisdom]

Sunshards

Strange how a moment can feel like two weeks.

Hyra's landing is anything but - she's got one last trick. She has angled the two of you towards a lake and does nothing to slow your descent. Instead, her hand moves in the complicated motion of a shielding spell. Red-white stars streak around you for a moment before you hit the water at full speed.

And there's an explosion of colour.

She'd originally learned this spell for battle. It was a way to turn the kinetic energy of an opponent's blow into an explosion of light - blocking their blow and blinding them in the same motion. Turns out the same spell when applied to terminal velocity results in a magnificent blast of colour and light that sends a fountain of water pouring up into the sky, preternaturally illuminated by magic that swirls through every drop. It's bright enough to illuminate every hidden corner of the water; bright enough to send the subterranean monsters of the Burrows scurrying deeper into their aquatic pits. It doesn't last quite as long as she wanted, though - this was something that she hadn't had the opportunity to practice as much as she'd liked. And so, the end result of Hyra's master plan is simply two girls embracing each other in a lake.

But then, maybe that's right. Maybe she didn't need to steal the show this final time, and this was good enough that she could just let it be as what it was.

Strange how two weeks can feel like a moment.

There's some time here, before the final curtain rises again. Time for hearts. Time for dates. Time for kisses. Tell us of your hearts, your dates, and your kisses as new girlfriends.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Fengye mulled the tea in her hands.

Her life was her own? What an unusual thing to say. It was so self evidently wrong on so many levels that it did not even merit much thought. She held up the thought delicately, and then folded it and set it aside in her mind. No, her life had been set for her by the Exam. Before the Exam, she had lived in studious service to it. After the Exam, she had been defined by its results. In fact, the only time she had stepped from the path of the Exam it was to subordinate herself to an even higher bureaucracy.

(That, too, was self evidently wrong. But the true scholar does not correct the mistaken - that might cause a loss of face, which was a perilous prospect in the Dominion. So she gives a polite smile, both to Kayala Na and to her teacup reflection, and says no more about it).

What is more relevant than the truth of the statement, though, is that Kayala Na has made it, and made it with conviction. That is curious. She had thought until this moment that the Knight was another duty-bound servant, that her misery was from likewise having no choice. But from that, the smile. The invitation. She had... chosen this. Remarkable.

It was a shame that she'd qualified her statement, though. As long as you're not hurting anyone. It turned out that what she really wanted, deep down, did involve hurting people. That perhaps Kayala Na was virtuous enough to step from the Path like an Immaculate, breaking convention in order to restore it. Her own lapse had been less admirable, and she had left a great deal of harm in her wake already.

Her reflection's eyes glittered blue. She drank it, swallowed it, hid it away deep inside of her again. But one drop remained in the cup. She measured it, as she might measure a dose of poison. After a long moment, she decided that perhaps she could allow herself this one drop.

"I do want that," she said.

[Clearing Afraid

Fengye has become Smitten with Kayala; take a string and see above for the answer to the Beautiful Lie.]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Mission: Remove dead body from the premises without drawing suspicion or leaving video evidence.

Issue: Pistol
White: Conceal pistol amidst drone wreckage. Reduces points of failure.
Blue: Why keep the pistol at all? We're not planning to shoot anyone, are we?
Black: we have been out of Mrs. Everest's manor for a month and one of us is already dead. gearing up seems prudent.
Blue: It's extremely illegal!
Black: we are stuffed with extremely illegal hardware already.
Black: also, fuck the cops. (+7)

Issue: Security cameras
White: Fixed angle security cameras may draw attention or leave a digital record.
Yellow: Rudy implied that he was involved with some bad people, I don't think we want anything out of the usual here.
White: Agreed. No records may be left. How to reach the parking garage from here without making it obvious we're a girl down and hauling a body?
Yellow: Idea.
Black: oh no
Yellow: I need Red's hair.
Black: you always make it weird.
Yellow: Shush, dear. I'll replace my hair with Red's, go down to the basement car park ahead of everyone else, and then get in the limo. At that point I will activate stealth mode, return up here unseen by the cameras, briefly re-enter the apartment, return my normal hair colour, and then make my way down to the car. Anyone who is counting will identify the correct number and colours of girls leaving the apartment.
White: We'll go in two groups to reduce a chaotic drip-feed of stragglers. What about the body?
Yellow: A duffle bag is suspicious. Let's put her in the cabinet Rudy dropped on her.
Black: oh my god
Yellow: The cabinet is already broken, it would make sense that Rudy would want it repaired or replaced. We're just hauling out some damaged furniture from the building.
White: It also holds up if Mr. Merkin is questioned by his silent partners. He could truthfully state that a cabinet fell and was removed by his cleaning staff.
Yellow: Saves us the stairs too!
Black: i think it says a lot about humans that they think our 'lazy psychopath' personality is the relatable one

Issue: Core referendum
White: One of us has died on my watch. Does anyone think I need to be replaced as the central personality?
White: ... Thank you for your continued confidence.

Issue: Future plans
White: My priority will going forwards will be to investigate this matter further.
White: I am aware that we are an extremely loose end. It may be that Mr. Merkin is being coerced or observed by people who less willing to buy our story and more willing to pay the Pinkertons.
Yellow: I think he's got a puppetwire.
White: Explain.
Yellow: Skillwires are augments humans get that allow them to patch in certain muscle memories, like piano lessons. Puppetwires are augments that trigger those muscle memories involuntarily in response to certain triggers. The classic example is a puppetwire that makes your mouth water when you see a McColonel's. These are often hidden 'features' in commercially available skillwires.
White: What the fuck? (+7)
White: Humans create security backdoors in their own brains!?
Yellow: Yep! They pay money for it, too!
Black: why are you so excited about this
Yellow: If you'd let me get the Rig out of storage, I could hack humans! I could program them with all kinds of things!
Green: Oh! It's a sex thing!
Yellow: It's n-not!
White: On topic girls.
Yellow: Ahem. So, the existence of assassination puppetwires has been speculated about for a while, but the commentariat laugh it off as science fiction. I think Rudy might have an actual legit one, that seems to fit with his whole... stunned and apologetic kind of vibe. He didn't have a plan or a step two to the killing, it seemed like literally just muscle memory. I'd love to study it!
White: ... Interesting thought. We'll get home and review the footage from Red and see if it supports your theory.

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

"The story says that we waited for rescue," said Hera, gaze imperial as she watches the boarding torpedoes cut across the rainbow black towards the dark shape of the Anemoi. "But how could we? We did not know that Zeus would come. We did not know the world would change. All we knew was darkness and hunger and hollow hearts. It was us and the void, day by day, and the void was not about to experience character growth."

Her hand flexes. Perfect jewels. Perfect fingernails. These are not practical, not necessary. She would still be Hera if she did not put in the effort, if she appeared in a simple storm-deep toga like Zeus. If she did not appear flanked by peacocks and golden heifers. Vanity, then? Obsessing over her appearance, over the full grandeur and regalia of what it means to be Olympian even when appearing before the least of mortals?

"Every day we were called upon to fall anew. It did not matter if we had fallen the previous day or had stood tall for years. Everything we were was built atop of the void, towers atop a pit. Every day our father sought to use us for the purpose we were designed, to fill his happy home and gut with the laughter of devoured children. We could not resist. We could not disobey. We had not the power. We only had the shadows."

And you can see the shadow as it closes in; the dark shape of the Anemoi, a pitch black dagger against red-green nebulae. You see its batteries fire and with a crash a vast solid projectile shell smashes through the deck next to you. The windows shatter, the air rushes with the void of space - and then stops. The shell sprays a thick weblike compound out behind it that forms a fragile skin over the breach it left, and similarly webs itself into the floor and the molten metal so it cannot be moved.

And then it begins to pump poison gas. Vast clouds of it, thick and billowing and tinged with violet and flashing with particles. It corrodes away metal like acid. All around the soldiers rush away towards emergency escapes - this entire deck will be unusable until a repair Plover arrives to cut the shell out and burn away the toxic webbing growth that is already spreading from the ruptured shell.

"But we had the shadows!" said Hera, rising up with her back to the wall of poison smoke. "And when you live in the void, how bright the shadows can be! How soft! How healing! The absence of light, the absence of power! Light seeps into everything, power is invasive. They want to pry open every thought and secret. But they tire. They weaken. They lose track. The more things they try to control the thinner they spread themselves, and they can never accept that they have enough so they're always reaching for more."

Impact. The ships have collided, through the coiled and shadowed smoke. The boarding teams are starting to cross. The objective is, as ever, the Engines.

"So do not underestimate the shadows," said Hera. "It is in shadow that you can decide exactly who it is you want to be."

Vasilia!

The darkness comes in rainbow colours. Polycromatic eyes open up to face you, clear through the madness of poison smoke. You may have your differences with the Gods, but you know better than to show any disrespect to Poseidon, Lord of the Deep. He will break your ship. He will break this world. He exists because disaster needs a face. And he smiles with the face of the Azura before settling back into scales as blue as the sea.

When the gods come to mortals in human shape the line between them and that god is blurry. Their advice will be divine, and their prowess unmatchable, but they also are that person. Perhaps inspired, perhaps synchronized, perhaps possessed. The exact nature of the dynamic is one for philosophers to argue over, but the tales of failing to heed someone who speaks with divine tongue are told in the language of ruined cities.

Then you stagger out of the smoke before an aged Azura warrior, the cataphract who sat at the right hand of the Satrap. He wears a scroll-badge that lists his battles in flowing calligraphy and armour engraved with oaths. Silver scales flick amidst his sky blue radiance, billowing white robes and disregard for gravity setting him in the air like a martial stormcloud. Rainbow eyes blink at you. His title is no secret: he is the Furnace Knight, and he needs to be treated with the respect due to an entire tank division.

"You wield the Glave, traveler," said the Furnace Knight. "Who trained you? As a show of hospitality to mighty Zeus, allow me to kill your master, for they have done you poor service."

Dolce!

"Duty," sniffs Jil, with a measure of polite contempt. That golden fire still burns even as she is pulled along in your shadow, lantern razor bright. "I suppose that is what good captains think to. I have served under a great many good captains, Lord Captain. Captains with minds on duty. Captains who were so good at duty that they were extensions of their ship, extensions of their mistresses, extensions of the Empire. I know what it is to have a good captain."

But her mind turns over your admission of your history as a chef. Of your status as a servitor, a bioengineered servant species, an organic machine whose species was built to a purpose. And despite a hostile mind she can find no lie in your gentle voice.

"But duty flows uphill, doesn't it? The obligations of the low to the high. The meek to the loud. And so those bound by duty never blink or turn their heads or look down. Duty, then, sounds a lot like making a virtue out of capitulation to power. And that is not one of the virtues that Lord Apollo teaches us. Lord Apollo teaches us the kindness to combat cruelty. Lord Apollo teaches us the courage to combat inertia. Lord Apollo teaches us the wisdom to see the cracks in the world."

The ring has slipped and fallen from your horn into a boiling pot. In the crash of steam as she pours the pasta therein into a strainer it vanishes from your field of view.

"I do not love my work, Lord Captain," said Jil with the courage of a mouse who has been through the jaws of a cat unscathed. "But I suppose most of the good captains I have served under must have thought I did. It must be a balm to those receiving the fruits of duty to imagine that it is given out of unconditional love. That frees them from all the virtues that are not duty. It frees them from sitting in the dark and listening. It frees them from confronting and banishing warrior cults. It frees them from responsibility. I imagine it is a very liberating life to be a good captain, Lord Captain."

Skotia!

You are bleeding, Skotia. You came within a breath of the ender of breath. It cost you, and you will need gentle hands to stitch that bloody wound before long.

You remember the shape of that shadow, the way it coiled, the way it moved, the way it struck with a savagery that reminded you of Bella's movements mere moments ago. You would have died. Bella would have died. But Artemis lashed it with chains for its attempt, until it shrank away from you. It has not offered her your name, has not consecrated a hunt for you, and by the Huntress' laws it may not have you. Your presence, then, will do more to keep Bella safe than anything else.

[Pay a Price despite your 10 Skotia; Thist is a Threat to the World]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

"I promise I'm not trying to be mysterious," said Fengye. "I've got a hometown in Bluespray - little fishing village way up north. Went south for the university, studied administration, the Immaculate Texts. But... hmm," she chewed the thought over in her mouth a bit. "It's embarrassing, and a bit illegal. Probably a bit below your pay grade though, so... hmm, let's just say I was messing around with magic a little bit."

She seems genuinely ashamed of it. The Immaculate Texts are the philosophical underpinning of the Dominion and they are extremely clear on who should and shouldn't be interacting with magic. Whatever she's done, she regards it as a moral and religious failing on her part - and one that could see her expelled, punished, and end her career before it starts.

"So yeah," she said. "Today isn't the greatest for me either. But from what you've told me, your bad day has been bad stuff happening to you rather than stuff you've done wrong, right?"

Her hands scatter some tea leaves into two small cups. A northeastern blend, the dry spice tang of the mountains and the Lap. She murmurs a few words as it steeps, using the Immaculate chant to help her keep time for the proper moment to drink.

"When the Water Dragon gained wisdom of the world, she shaped herself to fit it/
and by beating drops and crashing waves, smoothed away it's jagged edges."

[Emotional Support: 7]

Breathless Dead

Alexa!

A shiver runs through the ship. The lurch of acceleration. The distant pounding of macrobatteries. This world in the sky is waking to the call of battle.

"The story says that Kronus devoured me," said Hestia quietly, strong arms churning the yeast compound that transformed oats into butter. "And a lot of mortals took that literally. Because, bless them, they didn't understand what it was to have your life consumed by a wicked parent. To have your soul chewed down, blunt and grinding and constant, until it was more exhausting to maintain resistance than to crack. To have acid seep in, thick and burning, stripping away feeling and making gentle things feel toxic and painful against raw skin and heart. They didn't know what it was like to dwell in a darkness that was another's satisfaction. The humans who read those stories understood hunger, and assumed that was all it was. But they missed that some people aren't just hungry. Some people genuinely love food. They love eating it. They love feeling full. They're grateful to the food that goes down easy and gives them a warm feeling inside. The meal can never claim it was neglected."

Her hands are steady as she pours. The compound sizzles as the yeast sterilizes, leading only cream, fat and butter behind. Distant war-songs echo through the halls.

"I didn't correct them. I was glad they didn't get it. I was kind of glad that the worst parent that people could imagine was a hungry giant. But, just like so many of our stories, it was corrupted in our neglect. The rich and powerful heard the story of Kronus and thought, 'ah, so long as I do not literally eat my infant, then I have done no wrong' even as their devouring jaws choked down cities and worlds."

She lifts the heavy bucket and starts pouring the soft and smooth semisolids into glass bottles. The bear-head of her hoodie is lowered, and her dark hair is tied back in a simple bun. Her hands are steady even as deep and distant crashes of battle make themselves know again. "But then, you asked me how I endured it? The same way you did. I didn't know anything else. I did not lift myself from that pit, Alexa. I was rescued. I can't show you the way. Ask another."

Dolce!

"I apologize, Lord Captain," said Jil, firmly taking the pot - and the hand that held the ring. As she spoke the tip of her tail slipped into the ring, wearing it. "But that is not acceptable. We are in the Endless Azure Skies and this is a realm of dedication and specialization. You may not simply decide to intrude upon the space of another, no matter how far you may think them beneath you. Even if you have received dispensation to cook that does not give you the right to trespass on the work of the waiters."

There is a fierce determination in that voice, a genuine courage and commitment. That's a surprise. A battered and terrified slave would have backed down or stumbled. Jil, though - she was fighting for something she believed in, for someone she believed in.

And that's honestly a shock because she's the first Imperial servitor you've ever met like that. Even most Imperial nobles are driven by some combination of greed or fear. But within this lantern burns a genuine fire.

Bella, Skotia, and Vasilia!

The great hall is a storm, and the eye is Beautiful.

She moves through the storm of violence and rushing bodies, drowned in thought, untouched by the mortal world. She steps through all the empty places between bodies and debris and scattered violence, semi-divine mind having done the math on everyone's fighting styles and able to predict every move and motion perfectly. Her head is bowed in thought and her violet eyes flicker rapidly as they process incomprehensible reams of data - only resolving for a second to link with Bella's from across the hall, timed perfectly for the second when Bella's frenzied eyes catch hers. She makes the T-gesture - time out. Something is wrong.

And above it all, Redana's voice rises in command. And then all things truly are chaos.

She has directed her retinue to open fire with solid projectile weaponry. High angle, high coverage. The ceiling rattles as fusilades strike it from her bodyguard, firing volley after volley straight up, causing a shattering cascade of thunder and the descent of billowing clouds of opaque poisonous gas. It does not bring death with it - chemistry lost the arms race to biology long ago - but it brings noise, blindness, stinging pain and confusion. Redana has decided to draw the curtains on this conflict.

And as the smoke descends the only thing that can be seen is a red glow, a devil in the fog, a volcanic rupture in Azura blue. The light of some awful cigar silhouettes a serpentine shape that prowls through the toxic mists. It is hunting. It being visible is no sign of weakness, it's a sign of the most terrible strength there is. Artemis demands brilliance from the most deadly.

Each of you, whose hand finds yours in the dark?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Asking what Fengye wants is an exercise in chaos. This is a heart at war with itself and exhausted from the battle. She wants to go home. She wants to have a warm meal. She wants you to smile at her like a character in a storybook. She wants her legs to work. She wants to be strong. She wants everything, and wants it all so badly that you can never quite be clear what are raindrops on her face and what are tears of desperate, craving frustration for something, anything, everything. And her hand keeps being drawn back to something hidden beneath her robe.

But what she hopes to get from you? From this conversation? Not a damn thing. All that feral craving beneath the surface remains beneath the surface, and as a flick of firedust from her fingers ignites a fire, all you see in those eyes is a humble concern for you. Whatever her desires, she has no expectations they'd ever be fulfilled. Instead, she wants to help and does not know how.

And so, in place of knowledge, she cooks. Dried rice noodles, a generous scattering of a rich and orange chili powder, cubes of rich white tofu and radish. A rich scent arises from the boiling pot she tends as she listens to you talk.

"You'll catch a fever if you go out in that," she said. "And this is mountainous territory. The ground will be unstable and rocks will be dislodged by mudslides. Trees fall in storms like this, and snakes will be driven out of their burrows by the rain. I'm not saying you don't have the courage to handle the danger, but slogging your way through ankle deep mud in full armour for hours won't leave you in fighting shape when you arrive at the demon castle."

She looked up at you, brown-black eyes reflecting the fire. "I'll be fine from here. Don't let honour stop you. Only practicality. When was the last time you ate?"