Thanqol

Breathless Dead

Portugal!

It's like being in a world made out of cardboard.

Everything here is fragile. The buildings are made out of barely treated stone. The people are made out of calcium and water. The trees are uncondensed carbon. The streets are heavy with the discarded paper-mache pages of newspapers, cheap ink smudging and fading in the sunlight. The music that plays from hidden speakers is tinny and tuneless, the images that flash on archaic plastic screens would pale in comparison even to the museum of the Tunguska. It would be very nice to be able to romanticize an alien civilization - it is all very impressive when you consider they built all this themselves after starting out as water slime - but it's hard to appreciate it. It makes the amenities of even a backwater like Beri stand out.

As an example, it might be tempting to compare them to ants. But the ants on Beri were a useful aspect of the ecosystem - they would swarm over cliff faces, carving away edges that had been blunted by ocean wind erosion, creating impressively sharp angles and deepening shadows. The waste rock was then used to create aesthetically placed islets, which would then be tended to by birds genetically engineered with gardening instincts. The birds would fly to the ends of the earth to collect rare and aesthetically pleasing seeds and deposit them in elegant configurations. Swim to any of them and there would be honey and peaches waiting ripe on the vine, each one a unique delight designed to resist boredom. That was normal. Here - you've seen the same restaurant five times on the walk here. They just built the same structure, with the same colours, staff and menu five identical times. It's not even a beautiful building; it's just a grey stone box and the people inside have attitudes of resignation. Even your disguises regularly turn heads in the streets given the universality of drab, muted, clashing and mass-produced clothing on display.

They're trying their best, bless them. But this would be a hard sell even with just Beri as a point of comparison, let alone memories of the Imperial Palace. You have been on the inside of a civilization dedicated to universal beauty for so long that the jarring contrast of this moment makes the arrogant reaction of the Endless Azure Skies to outsiders at least comprehensible.

Dolce!

Oh, he's real dumb.

You can see it in the way the eyes of the Summerkind glitter when he confidently explains things to them. This is a man who surrounds himself with kids who don't know anything so that they'll think he's cool. You can see it in the eyes of the aged veterans on the fringe of the room, how they're just barely starting to wonder if none of this adds up. He's optimized the species to die at about the instant they become disillusioned with his bullshit and the turnaround for that is measured in weeks.

He doesn't see it that way of course. This is a guy who was born so correct he never needed to check anything. Speaking of, he tells the story about how he was so strong when he was newly born that he broke the doctor's finger - and how that was his inspiration for making the Summerkind hatch combat ready. He explains how he had to invent new martial arts because none of the existing ones could keep up with him and that's why he made the Summerkind so adaptable, so they could do the same thing. He spends like forty five unprompted minutes talking about ways he'd improve Doctor Ceron's genecode - not that he would, dead end design - and then suggesting that all the problems were caused by her 'emotions' which was 'typical'. Unlike him. Only Facts and Logic for Liquid Bronze, which is why he only drinks these protein shakes he invented.

And the cigars. Deep breaths of those, Aphrodite draped over the back of his chair, running his fingers through Liquid Bronze's hair as he turns to smirk at himself in the mirror-shine reflection of his bodyguard's breastplates. It's a good smirk. He practiced it for a long time.

"All that to say - who knows?" finished Liquid Bronze. "But that's the problem. My time is valuable because there are so many problems only I can solve. So, let's hear it! What do you need my help with this time?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There were two ways to be vulnerable. One was to be weak, to be defenseless, to be bound and gagged and rendered helpless, unable to act and so freed from the burden of action. The other, Solarel was learning, was to be hard read. No matter what thoughts existed in her head, whatever plans she had entered this battle with, whatever strength she natively possessed she was unable to wield it because her enemy had her downloaded on a level she couldn't comprehend. She struck directly into counters, she struggled directly into a lock, her tired and hungry body had spent so long in a stasis tank that it was utterly unprepared for direct battle.

... She'd been seen. She'd been so focused on what she was saying. If she'd be heard. On Speaking Not. Communication had been everything to her but that wasn't the only way to be known. Mirror had picked out parts of herself that she didn't even know she had. There was no defense. It would be easier to punch the ground.

"Thank you," she said.

Energy burns in her, the force of explosions, of high velocity staff strikes, of kisses. She's filled with the aching positive energy brimming in her power cores demanding release. She's never fallen from this height before, never fallen like this before, never would have written a battleplan which involved her surviving a fall like this. If it was her she'd have thought it was impossible - but someone she believed in thought she was better than that.

She called on the spirits of her swords. They had always been malleable things, in her hands as God and as mortal. Their nature was to be blades but there was more they could cut than steel. Silver flowed over her back. Gold ran through her veins. The molten power within her burned and crackled. Two blades extended from her back - then four, eight, sixteen, more. A radiant pair of angel's wings, one silver and one golden, spread out behind her, each plume a sword.

A sword does not see its potential. A weapon alone cannot live. This is her final surrender; not to wield her blade for her own will, but to become a sword in the hands of Whispered Promise. What else is there to do when the one who loves bids you to fly?

Breathless Dead

The Plousios!

The Portuguese, despite having turned their civilization towards the militarism of space, have no real way to prevent a hostile landing. But neither can they be ignored entirely. Some decisions have to be made.

Dyssia: How do you intend to land? There are a range of options, the simplest being a long range Boarpedo. Quick, quiet, fast - an ugly landing but it'll get you to the ground without drama with the locals. The catch is you can't leave the way you came. The next step up is a flight of Plovers - swift enough to skirt the edges of the defense fleet with only minimal contact, but once you land you'll have to park a dozen mechanical kaiju somewhere where the locals won't try to disassemble them. A full shuttle is the brute force option, with capacity to carry a full legion which can handle its own defense, but that's a big statement. If you really wanted to, you could also fly the Plousios close and base jump in from high orbit, but that's doesn't have many advantages over the Boarpedo.

Bella: What is the stylistic character of your visit going to be? A state visit, dressed as alien aristocracy? An infiltration, with your Hermetics and Sorcerer tasked towards concealing your true nature? Are you going to dress yourself as government agents, as in-system tourists, or as fellow kids attending school? You don't have a clear view of the alien culture but you do have a folder filled with out of context photographs provided by NBX.

Ember: What is the armament you're going to bring down with you? NBX has advised that even civilian solid projectile weapons work as a lethal neurotoxin to the inferior Portuguese biology, but swords alone will put you at a disadvantage against a presumably far better armed pack of Star Kings. Quajl has found a collection of esoterics aboard the ship but none of them are entirely perfect for this kind of operation - what do you choose, and what are the limitations?

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Beneath the waterfall stands a metal giant.

Once it was a thing of corporate war. Each of its components was designed to come apart and be replaced from oceans of identical replacements. Replace every plank in Theseus' ship and the warp and weft of the wood would be different to those who knew and loved it; replace every screw and fitting in the giant and not a molecule would be out of place. Once it had stood on the surface under ten suns and done battle with its kind.

Now it stands beneath a cliff, water cascading onto its head. Centuries of collected dirt and sediment have built on its boxy chassis, choking networks of reeds and mosses. It has sunk up to its knees in the muddy soil and its white paint has oxidized in spectacular blooms of orange and brown. Trees have grown up around it, their leaves landing on its shoulders and mulching into soil in which new saplings are starting to grow. And finally, its guts have been ripped open, revealing the still screaming and still glowing reactor at its core, casting a baleful orange light over the evening lake.

And up to this giant has been hooked a mad web of electrical cables. Hundreds of them, extending out from the giant in a mad cobweb, spilling into the water and out the side of the pool to where they connect to strings of electrical bulbs. Each cable is connected to endless cascades of lights that run up and down the cliff, up and down the trees, under and over the water, and then splintering out and running over rolling fields to distant houses and communities that draw their electrical power from the sleeping giant's ever pounding heart.

At the base of the giant's legs, by the waterside, is Actia's shrine. It's an ominous collection of buildings, constructed with the same kind of madcap energy that resulted in the mad spaghetti of cables, none rising higher than the half-sunk mecha's hip. Technomancer masks are visible on the outside, crackling satellite dishes pointed down at the water even though it could not be more than a meter deep at its lowest. The atmosphere is half idyllic and half crazed - similar to the Kun Shrine but without the edge of positive wholesomeness.

Diaofei tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, looking at the scene as it was lit up by the Kun Shrine's headlights. She had her finished molotov cocktail on the counter but it almost seemed to be slipped from her mind now. "It didn't look like this the last time I was here," she said. "It looked... wholesome."

Breathless Dead

Dolce!

It is not often in the Age of the Shogunate that you see anything that resembles a hospital.

The cleanliness is... Normal air has a bit of a metallic tinge, so omnipresent that you just don't think about it. That's actually the work of Exomites - bioengineered dust mites seeded on every planet in the galaxy. These mites work tirelessly to collect the infinitesimally small trace fragments of exotic hypermaterials like Quadranix required for modern engineering. Some of these materials are so rare that an entire planet infected with Exomites might only produce a hundred kilograms a year. But here they're gone. The air is clean. A perfect, sterile, flavourless oxygen-nitrogen mix, strained of every contamination.

The layout of the building is slipshod and haphazard, having been expanded at random, following the changing requirements of functionality without self reflection. You walk through a ward of drone tubes observed by various apprentice biomancers. You walk past a break room with a single chair facing a wall covered in posters of menacing looking Ceronians, marked with the words WE CAN BEAT THEM BY FOLLOWING POLICY other such inspirational messages. You walk through an open air cubicle farm where over a thousand apprentice biomancers work frantically with stylus and ink, illustrating muscle joints and connections and graphing out genetic sequences longhand, not looking up when the ceiling rattles and lights flicker as artillery shells impact on the bunker's roof. You walk past treatment wards, blue curtains and mechanical beds, where Summerkind sleep, leaf through magazines, or engage in high speed parallel conversations. Carts carrying food, laundry or failed drones force you to move aside constantly.

Every so often the P.A. crackles and a voice rings out through the facility. Sometimes it's functional: "Phalange test for Drone Batch 402," or "Incoming atomic. Brace for impact". Sometimes it's motivational: "Minimize idle chatter. Remember: Mouths are a privilige and not a right!" or "Remember: Containment breaches are to be expected and are not an excuse for missing deadlines". Sometimes they're unhinged. "The sign of a healthy workplace is being able to offer a stranger a high five - and get one! The sign of an unhealthy workplace is the deployment of Killer-T Drones!" or "Beauty is not an afterthought. It's critical to future funding! If you notice ugliness anywhere report it to the Eradication Team immediately."

Contribution leads you through, numbed and cold eyed. And then you arrive at the Dais - a prefab room that's physically been tilted on its side to add more verticality. At its bottom, crammed into the narrow space along the 'wall', are hundreds of Summerkind military strategists pushing past each other, laying out maps, discussing possibilities. A ladder leads up to a hastily built catwalk halfway up the room, where Biomancer-General Liquid Bronze sits in his command throne surrounded by his aides and assistants, issuing directives and imparting wisdom in between puffs of his cigar.

"See, the problem with Doctor Ceron's designs," he was telling his assistant, while flexing his bicep and pointing. "Is that she didn't understand the power of wolf social structures! Yes all of the Ceronians are sexy, powerful wolfgirls, with the rare few wolfboys mostly made as concessions to investors and they're not even in charge. And the way she'd have you hear it is that's the point! But that's wrong! In the wolf pack there's only room for one alpha, and all the others are betas and omegas - and that's what makes them such effective hunters. The betas work hard so they can usurp the alpha and get access to the omegas, that's motivation right there. You want my advice? You've got to biologically neg like 95% of your creations. Oh! - hold my cigar, we've got guests."

Liquid Bronze kicked his chair. It rotated on little scuttling feet and waddled across to face Dolce, Contribution and 20022. He gave a snap military salute, and Contribution returned it with tears in his eyes - he was meeting his hero, his creator, and at last something in his life made sense. "Good show, soldier," said Liquid Bronze. "Your sacrifices won't be forgotten."
"Yes, sir," said Contribution. "Thank you sir."
Liquid Bronze held the salute for another long moment. His assistant continued to hold the cigar as it burned away. Then Liquid Bronze broke it and turned back to face a massive map on the wall. It was being constantly updated by winged Summerkind who erased painted unit markers and replaced them in response to new reports. "Make it snappy, sheeple. This is probably the hardest battle I've ever fought and my opponent - well, he's a genius. No other word for it. Probably the best commander in the galaxy. It's going to take all of my cunning to turn this around. Adjunct! Order another frontal assault!"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The loser got to decide the shape of its victory.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. Defeat was defeat, by an inch or by a mile. Destruction was destruction, be it by her blade or her enemy's suicidal detonation. The Aeteline scorches directly towards the prismatic, reality warping explosion in the sky. Did you not learn? The sacrifice of the pilot is a small price to pay for victory. Did you not learn? Did you not think I would use that maneuver again? Did you not learn what perfection lo ook s li --jtke ---

Amidst the centre of the prismatic distortion is a rupture where colour itself burns away, all refraction stripped from the Aeteline's shadowed plating. Rainbow energy penetrates its cheeks, cuts its neck, pierces its shoulder, cuts away the armour and exposes the shrieking turbine heart of the Aeteline. Its hands reach up, to shield itself or pull the detonating sun from the sky. The Aeteline does not scream in pain or in triumph as it watches its opponent die before it does. Victory is registered as merely the the smooth confirmation of a variable before its entire upper quadrant was vaporized.

*

She can't breathe.

This... isn't a new thing. She's not sure she ever learned how. Nose to the ground as she clawed her way through the hurricanes of the Stormlands. Silent and alone in a city of lies. Lungs filled with suspension fluid, held in the inertialess core of her God. She's never needed to breathe to survive.

Her eyes open dimly, looking up at the wreckage of the heavens.

She's hungry. She's tired. She's not ready for this. Her swords are in her hands, following her even through the end of divinity, but her arms are too weak to wield them. She did not think that this would be her battlefield. She... doesn't know what to do. As she races the sonic boom to the ground her mind is empty of the vast superstructure of knowledge and prediction that weighed on her so heavily. Five minutes ago she had known the future. Now she...

She saw the diamonds. She saw the lace. She saw the most beautiful girl in the galaxy coming towards her. She couldn't breathe. She was unprepared, unadorned, heartless, having thrown everything away for victory on the wrong battlefield. Her hands relaxed, swords starting to drift away from her, sparkling into trails of nanobots, surrounding her in dust like teardrops. She saw...

For the first time in her life she took a breath in. She needed it if she was going to laugh. She needed to laugh because she'd just seen the section staff in Mirror's hands. It escaped from lips silenced by wind and wave and fear like a long buried prisoner's first glimpse of sunlight.

Her hands tightened around her swords. She took a battle stance, back towards the approaching earth. Her limbs were stiff and her scales were dull and she did not have any sort of mental framework or theory of victory. She was at every disadvantage. She was the weaker. She was the lesser. There was only one technique that could answer all of this. Only one way to turn this back into something like a battle of equals.

"I love you." It took work to say it through the suspension fluid that still caught in her throat, twisted her stomach, made her veins crackle hypersensitive to electrical impulses. Side effects she'd never suffered before.

She had thought about how to defeat a section staff. She just had to get close...

"I've always loved you." It took work to say it above the howling wind. Speech wasn't enough. She needed to shout. Needed to cry out to be heard, needed to cry out so it would be heard by everyone.

... She just had to slip inside her opponent's guard...

"And I'll love you forever." It took work to say it against a lifetime of silence. But in this moment, Solarel could only see the lifetime ahead of her.

Transform a duel into a grapple. Transform a fall into a dive. Transform silence into speech, and speech into a kiss. Come to me, my nemesis - and let me steal your victory one more time.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Current appearances to the contrary, Daiofei is a very good monk. She has unbelievably precise control over her mind and body.

This is not a good thing when it comes to conditions of heartbreak. To understand why, one must consider the harm a drunk might do while lying on the floor of their living room carpet as opposed to the harm they might do while driving a main battle tank - which is actually not a huge distance from the material reality of the situation she has lead Saber into.

The AutoTemples are an innovation of the modern world. You see, some people get tired of their same set of local temples and shrines but don't have the desire or capability to leave on long pilgrimages. But, the monks reasoned, we live in a socialist utopia, so why not have temple visit you? And so they started converting old vehicles into mobile temple complexes. These range from decrepit little buggies with a Buddha statue crammed into the passenger seat, unmarked white vans filled with illicit foxgirl prayer strips, and even grander constructions like this: Kun Temple, an entire shrine building complete with koi fish lake, rock garden and carefully cultivated cherry blossom tree built into the back of an 18-wheeler barrelling down the highway at one-twenty kilometers an hour. The monks responsible for driving the top-heavy monstrosity are protected by the powerful blessings of their shrine and they drive like it. Here they run a red light, causing a motorbike to swerve into a river where the driver is then rescued by a beautiful swan maiden. There they scorch through a roundabout, nine wheels leaving the ground as they do, an offering bowl of sherbet candies flying off the altar and directly through the sunroof of a parked vehicle. Now a monk leans out over the side to snatch the hat off a pedestrian and shout something in Nepalese as the truck blitzes past, which was a blessing because it did not go with that outfit at all.

Daiofei has asked to drive. The monks - either because she holds some powerful rank, or because they're just chill like that - have let her. She is now steering the Kun Temple with intent and with the aid of an automap on her phone that she regularly minimizes to watch an instructional video on how to build a molotov cocktail. As the truck cuts across a sunflower field, engine roaring mightily against mud and vegetation, she will finally answer the question as to where they're going and it's not exactly towards recovery - "Actia has a shrine where she lives. I'm going to burn it to the ground."

Breathless Dead

NBX-462!

NBX-462 is a military servitor, and that means a certain tolerance for dealing with other military servitors. His conditioning prepared him for being placed in close proximity to predator species that could and would torment him into unmet performance targets. The Biomancers who had engineered him for the duty, though, had been less interested in addressing the root issues and more interested in producing the appearance of function.

Hence the silly little waistcoat. Hence the silly little mustache. Hence the silly little walking stick. Hence the silly little finger-wag and silly little puns he made when directly assaulted to hide the fact that he was turnt as hell.

"The Silver Kings descend from primogentor Laell IV," he said as his hands busily worked at transcribing the specifics of the contract. Not a tremble. "Core attributes: Urban-designated, courtly aesthetic, educational lineage. Specifically, Laell was a fencing instructor engineered to tutor wealthy aristocrats in the fundamentals of swordfighting. This was, of course -" he smiled absently, thinking very hard about the crossword puzzle he'd left back on his ship for just such an occasion, "- a seduction. Laell and her line used their positions adjacent to aristocracy to steal hearts, engineer vendettas, and induct key figures into the Ceronian species. This caused the collapse of dynasties and the Star Kings emerged from their vaunted origins with an arsenal of direct energy weapons and a taste for the finer things in life."

"As to the Portuguese," he went on, feeling on somewhat safer - though much more confusing - ground now. "Their -" he grappled for a word. 'Poor' and 'rich' were not relevant concepts in the Skies. "- citizen underclass... how to put this? They possess genetically engineered servitors, but for the most part these are animals shaped through selective breeding programs. These are of such low quality that they are outperformed by primitive chemical reactors. As a result, their civilization has conscripted enormous quantities of its administrator species into menial service and labour roles that they are massively overqualified and underspecialized for. This means these labourer-administrators," there was just no elegant way to put any of this, "have enormous surplus intellectual and creative energy, which they mostly turn to the purpose of displacing or joining the group of administrators who are living civilized lifestyles. For their part, the ruler-administrators have to turn their own creative and intellectual surplus, as well as that they can harness of their directly indebted inferiors, into maintaining their rule. This causes them enormous stress, degrading their quality of life, and requires the existence of a standing military for use against the underclass-administrators."

He signed the form with a flourish and handed it over. "It is no way to run a civilization, in my opinion. But as to what they want, well - they're too disorganized to even know that. Some of them, encouraged by the Generous Knight and her technology transfers, are forming a militarized and xenophobic wing dedicated - amusingly enough - to the destruction of the Endless Azure Skies. Some of them, based largely on Cash Money's medical interventions, have decided that we are gods, or we're the reincarnation of one of their local political leaders who died a while ago, or that we are here to take a side in their local political conflicts. One of these groups went so far as to land a chemical rocket on the hull of my ship with an ambassador - I returned her to the planet without comment, of course. Some other group is building a primitive generation ship in an attempt to escape what they imagine to be an immanent ground invasion - and when I say primitive I mean 'over a hundred years to reach a neighbouring system'."

He sat back, folding his hands in his lap. "But what do they want? I imagine all of this begins with their poverty. I am having to order in so many goods because their civilization produces nothing of note. Aphrodite rules here with an iron fist in a way that is only possible when she still has things like 'immortality' to tempt people with."

Dolce!

"Oh, that part?" said Contribution with a grin. "You just gotta be so good at your job that it'd be trouble to replace you. Bosses hate trouble."

The shuttle comes down under fire, and the diplomats arm up. There is a massive impact as the ship makes landfall, and then a huge crash as the back deployment ramp almost falls off, still burning with sticky chemfires. The Summerkind, formed up into a protective phalanx, give a warrior yell and advance into a moonscape of mud, wire, and toxic smoke. Immediately Debug is taken in the neck with an arrow and goes down. The rest flow into a wild evasion pattern, pulling you and 20022 along. The bright glare of an Esoteric ignites, evaporating Drill in a flash of blue light. There's yelling and panic, hunkering down, a whirl of mud and fire.

"They knew we were coming!"
"The command bunker is just over there -"
"Escort the sheep, they're the only thing that matter -"

Shells come crashing down. Contribution is half-carrying you through the storm. Shrapnel embeds in your wool, smoking and radioactive. And then out of the shadows ahead comes a monstrosity - four meters tall and gangly, built like a shadow puppet, black limbs and gold armour, white powdered face and a curling wig. An Avatar - a hostile environment projection suit for Biomancers, not occupied directly but more like a highly personalized drone that acts as a direct ambassador. "Come on, you bastards," it roars above the chaos, "do you want to live forever?"
There is a rallying cry, and all around you thousands of Summerkind erupt from their trenches, bayonets fixed, and storm towards the enemy in an avalanche. You're escorted against the tide, through the jostle, towards the shining blue-yellow flag of the command post.

And then you're inside. It's silent. It's clean. It's spotless medical white. There are showers, changes of clothes and a wide variety of cosmetics and hygiene products standing by. Contribution is staring around with wild, shocked eyes, every member of his clutch gone - lost, dead, joining the charge. 20022 is immediately taking to the shower with a completely unfazed expression.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She has never felt less in control.

This was what it was to fight someone strong. She was audience and centerpiece all at once. She made no decisions. She expressed nothing of herself. She had no chance to answer. She wouldn't have anything to say if she did. Every trick, every customization, every strength had been stripped from the Aeteline. It was powerless. She was powerless.

This was what it was to fight someone weak. She followed the pattern, exploited the cracks, exactly as Mirror had arranged it. She was guided, softly and inevitably, towards her victory. Every act of power created a shadow, every revealed gap in the armour determined where she would place her hands. She had taken no position and so she could be anywhere; she had no ability to take a position so she had to go where Mirror placed her. Her hands were bound by ribbons of light. Her feet moved to music she was not permitted to hear.

She knew the words Speak Not but here she realized there was a difference between being silent and being unable to speak. Her previous fights she had been enthroned in power. She had spoken - frustrated, exasperated, isolated battles, conflicts that did not last long enough for the rage in her to pass. She had never been held like this and been forced to listen before.

Mirror was strong. Mirror was weak. Solarel was nothing. Perfect nothing. She moved like water in between the gaps in Mirror's light and she'd have her nothing victory. It would prove nothing, express nothing, teach nothing. When people asked how to be successful in war the Ancestors would tell them: just fight like Solarel. Tactics were for villains. Beauty was for gimmick bosses. Strategy was a two-episode inconvenience at best. The path to victory was to be this: an empty cypher, a generic protagonist, a blank canvas upon which the opponent paints their illustration of perfection.

She is held. She is caressed. She is kissed. She cannot hold. She cannot caress. She cannot kiss. She is at the mercy of her victory, whatever Mirror decides that looks like. Inevitably she makes her way towards the centre, following the dance steps marked out for her, displaying herself in silence. She cannot even say that she understands now. It's too late for her to speak.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits has received compliments before - but not like this! Most of her compliments were things like 'good girl!' and 'Oh! Big yawn!" and that kind of thing. And she *was* a good girl, and she did have big yawns while she was sleepy, but she'd never been complimented on her wisdom before. Saber had even called her wise twice - oh! Was she wise? She'd kind of thought she was flailing wildly, but maybe she'd been filled with Fox Wisdom all along, maybe like that big mountaintop fox shrine that Yue had to spend a whole day hiking to get up to. People probably didn't build shrines like that to silly foxes.

Kat visualized herself as having a shrine like that all of her own. Sitting comfortably with a mountain view while people hiked all the way up to bring her treats and ask to listen to her wisdom. Now that was a life for a fox! She puffed up her chest with pride and excitement.

"Of course it's a deal!" she said sagely, in a tone she thought a wise sage fox might use. A foxy instinct twitched - was she really? - no, Saber had explained that too. Where she came from the foxes were honoured - maybe they all had mountain shrines? So she was trading on their reputation, which was a meaningfully cunning fox move to begin with. "My name is Katherine Isabella Fluffy -" she caught herself just in time. She was impersonating a mountain sage fox! She liked Fluffybiscuits but it wasn't wise. "- mountains. Fluffymountains. That's my name. Fluffymountains the fifth. M.D."

She shrieked as a wave of Berserker's arm almost hurled her off the side of the castle.