TheAmishPirate

Fellowship: The Heart

The lump of fox shrank even smaller in Coleman’s arms.

“Um. If you’re talking...before, that is,” she shuffled in search of a comfortable position that constantly eluded her. “Wolf and I went off alone. We’d been, mostly she’d been, having some snacks before that. All of us got here earlier today?” Was that the right answer? Was that at all helpful? For anything? “I-I’ll be fine here, you were in the middle of something, it’s, it doesn’t, please, I don’t want to keep you longer...”

Breathless Dead

Her back was exposed. One simple toss, and she could plant the blade square between her shoulders. But that would involve letting go of the knife. So she sat. She hissed. And she said nothing.

Alone in the Praetor’s bedchamber, Vasilia took to the long task of freeing herself.

It was bitter work. The knife did not want to fiddle with pins and tumblers. It hungered for her blood, and the slightest lapse in concentration was opportunity enough to feed. Soon her jacket bore dozens of tiny slashes, and her unprotected hands were sprinkled with cuts. She had to move slowly. Deliberately. Tell her racing heart to just, just calm itself, for a moment while she worked, and maybe they’d both be out of this within the week-

Screeching. Metal rending in two. And in the same moment, an angry bleeding slice across her hand.

Vasilia growled, a rush of choice expletives all crushing together in a single, agonized cry. She sacrificed another length of sleeve to wrap around her hand in a loose bandage; a mercy she found a patch not soiled by sap or wine. As she held the dressing tight against her wound, her eyes pierced through the walls, following the rabid monster outside, and words finally spilled out of her in a molten stream.

“Shut up, you. Just...just shut. Up. As if you have anything to howl about! Spoiled, rotten, miserable little thing! They should have left you to starve in whatever dump they found you in! Gods know it’d have made the galaxy a better place.” Could Bella even hear her, over all the racket? The thought never once crossed her mind. “This is all you’re good at! It’s all you’ll ever be good at, and anyone would be a fool to believe otherwise! Pile on all the airs and fancy clothes you like; it’ll never change anything, you...waste!”

She squeezed her hand tight, tighter, until her eyes screwed shut with pain, and bitter tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

************************************************************************************

Oh dear.

Whyever would someone be hunting him? Of all the people here? He’d thought he’d just been foolish in his attempts to follow Demeter, been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but this rang quite a bit more serious than that. This was personal. Which, again, made hardly any sense at all. He’d not been so crass as to give his name out, nor had he done much more than attend to his Captain. And speaking of, he didn’t have time for this! She was waiting for him! He musn’t delay! How he wished Artemis had developed a return service for this sort of thing; it would make clearing all this up so much easier.

Still. Hunt or no hunt, mistake or deadly serious, he still had a job to do. And he would see it through.

First thing’s first though; he jotted down a quick note to the pile of chefs recovering from their ordeal, apologizing for the trouble he’d put them through, and recommending they keep their heads down for the foreseeable future. With that taken care of, he carefully wrote out a detailed letter stating his name, station, location, date of birth, age, marital status, generational number in lieu of nearest relative, and a polite inquiry for any public records on active hunts related to his person. This he left by a single, burning candle, along with a little bit of trail rations he saved for just such an emergency. Artemis did enjoy her practical snacks, the kind you could eat on the go. Or during your requisite five-minute breaks.

[Rolling to Speak Softly with Artemis: 4 + 5 + 1 = 10. What can she tell me about this hunt?]

Breathless Dead

The rescue comes. But did it come soon enough?

Her neck is ruined. Burning spots of red stand out against sickly, blotchy bruises, shaped by hands neither human nor servitor. Sap lives in her fur now, clumped and sticky and worked in so deep it may never come out again. She lifts a hand to rub at her throat, and there is nothing familiar in the motion. As the eye of the storm imitates stillness, torn in equal measure by winds of all directions, so too would a fool mistake the restraint for composure.

She doesn’t speak. She gasps - ragged, ugly breaths - and perhaps that is the only sound she will make now.

But ah! Fear no longer, Captain of the Starsong! Here is your hero! Shining with the glory of battle, clothed in resplendence and victory. Mighty of arms, powerful and terrible in wrath upon her foes. Does not the sight of her soothe your hurt? Can you not feel your heart grow calm in her shadow? What could possibly hurt you in the care of the Empress’ hand?

She reaches out, shaking with the effort...

...and her hand closes on the hilt of the knife, still embedded in the mattress.

*************************************************************************

Dolce cannot stop.

If he holds the ingredients in his hands, long enough for his stomach to realize what he’s holding, all will be lost. The moment he picks it up, he throws it in a high arc across the kitchen to land safely in a cookpot. What did he throw? He couldn’t begin to say. He was too busy somersaulting over countertops to his next destination. Where was he going next? An excellent question, he’d get to that in a few minutes, he was busy now. Go here, then there, then back over there, that was his job, and he had to do it, and he couldn’t ever stop.

Please, everyone. Please. He knows it’s hard, but hold on just a little while longer. He’ll be done soon. He’s going as fast as he can. It hurts, oh, how it hurts, the emptiness, trying to eat you up from the inside unless you eat first. He knows it hurts. Believe him, he knows. Please, trust him. Stay strong. Stay alive, please.

See, see, he’ll use what he has. He won’t make any more trips. What does he have? A bottle of it doesn’t matter put it all in. Some packets of he’s not thinking about that he’s too busy putting that in too. Stirring. Stirring. Just keep stirring, Dolce. Almost there. A little while longer. Almost there.

Gods. The emptiness.

Just...a little...a little longer...

His mouth fills with a heavenly flavor. Rich, sweet, dense and chewy, a little hard in places, no, hold on, that’s a spoon. Why’s there a spoon in his mouth? He looked down his nose and saw the rest of a long stirring spoon sticking out of his mouth, gripped tightly in both hands. All about him, he had the sensation of a crowd, of bustling activity, but perhaps, a growing calm? Or perhaps that was just the work of...well, whatever it was he was chewing. Quite nice though. He thought he ought to keep chewing, spoon or no spoon, and the rest of him agreed it was a fantastic idea. Everything else, he could sort out in a moment.

[Dolce makes it in the nick of time, rolling Overcome w/Grace at 7. Paying a price of his Vigor drinks, marking that off his sheet.]

Breathless Dead

All crowds have flows to them, you know. Everybody’s going somewhere. Lots of them are going to the same somewheres. Others, they’re going in the same direction for a little bit, and everyone fell into a little line that snakes its way through the oncoming rush. In ones and twos and threes and many. If you keep your eyes open, you can see it. The ebbs and flows of a hundred souls milling about, following the rules nobody’s really bothered to write down, but everybody seems to know anyway.

Kitchens were rarely crowded places, but you never knew what sort of events you might be entertaining for.

Dolce flitted through the crowd at an unhurried pace, yet a pace that never seemed to falter. Wherever he turned, there was always a gap, or a fresh flow of Hermetics all parting the sea around them, or a rare bit of open space. Without stopping, he followed after the Lady Demeter, no matter how he wished he could stop and rescue a few plates. He breathed a quiet prayer for whoever was on kitchens today, that they could get off with only a little warning.

*********************************************************************

Vasilia buries a scowl in her wine glass, yet left her eyes smiling.

“Hmph. Little yourself, short stuff.”

She takes a sip. Paused. Then another, to confirm if she’d tasted that correctly, but no, quite right the first time; rubbish. The worst sort of bad wine. A wine too strong, at least you didn’t have to taste it for very long. A wine too weak, you had all the time (and glasses) to appreciate how terrible it was.

Vasilia furrows her brow thoughtfully, pretending to truly contemplate the beverage in her hand, all while she furiously contemplates everything surrounding the beverage in her hand. Terrible choice to impress a guest. Not a punishment or a joke, or else Bella’d have given herself something better. Her eye had turned soft as she drank, so clearly she didn’t realize it was awful. But not an hour ago, Bella had picked a marvelous vintage from a whole lineup of top-shelf wines, so clearly it wasn’t a matter of bad taste. She had deliberately selected ditchwater wine to share with an honored guest, rather than any of the better vintages she had at the ready, and this had to mean something but for the life of her Vasila couldn’t begin to guess what.

Thank the fates Bella dropped her glass when she did, and dashed the mystery straight out of her.

At once, she too is alert. Through the room, through the air, no spacer worth their salt could miss the feeling of engines kicking up. Certainly...no, hold that thought, multiple engines?! “That’s not our-”

It’s all she has time to say before death comes for her.

She fights you, even though she has to know she’s already lost. There’s no leverage for her legs. She’s only got the one arm. The last of her breath is pulled from her lungs in jagged spurts as bones creak beneath your fingers. But she fights. With the one arm you’ve left her, she punches and pushes and rakes every inch of you she can reach. And though she cannot speak for screaming, her eyes cry out that she cannot die like this. Not like this. Not...not like…

The air rushes back with a choking gasp, and for a moment all her thoughts are on filling her lungs as quickly as possible. She lies there, limp, hand still clutching your shoulder and

“Ah-!”

Her whole body tenses under you. The gasps are shorter. Faster. No room for words. But you know the tongue she speaks. You feel her claws through your jacket, tightening as you feast. Taste her pulse on your teeth, racing, bursting, so near, so fast, so fast. And still you demand more of her.

Were you not satisfied with this, Praetor? Did you need to steal away the moment her heart needed to be heard too? See her now, beneath your palm. All that’s left is the eyes. This isn’t the brave, defiant Captain. This isn’t the dancing socialite with the silver voice. She’s just...her. A lioness you held in your arms, and now hold at your mercy. Flushed. Confused.

Hurt.

You never even learned her name, did you?

You walk away, and miss how all melts into indignation, blazing fury directed squarely at your retreating back. Of all the-! Exactly when did she say she was your territory to mark, or could you only hear the wine talking?! Brute! Drunkard! Sloppy, miserable, wretched-!

In an act of supreme defiance, Vasilia raised her head above the baseboard to spy out Bella’s visitor.

Fellowship: The Heart

The word is scrutiny.

She doesn’t meet his eyes. Hasn’t, not once, since they came here. Wrapped in her blanket, Wolf hovering protectively over her shoulder, she presented as little as possible; two paws emerging from a tangled heap of fabric, and the barest hint of a snout peeking from beneath a pulled-up hood. He can’t even see her bite her lip, pained, as she nodded. “S-sure. Yeah.” Her voice emerged just long enough to get the words in, before darting back into the dark and silence.

Of course it was him. It wouldn’t have been Ailee, or Lucien, or a particularly soft pit she could fall into for the rest of her life. It’d be Coleman she’d find first. Otherwise it might be fair, for once. She wouldn’t have to let him carry her worthless hide one more time. She wouldn’t have to hear her name in that voice of his; deep enough to hold any problem, and warm enough for the rest of you. But no. She didn’t get fair. She got to taste all the wonderful joy a good friend had to offer, before he took it away forever. One more time, so it’d be _fresh_ when he found out.

Jackdaw weighed the fried monstrosity in her hand, and all the better foxes who wouldn’t put such filth in their mouths.

Small bites. Small bites.

Breathless Dead

Captain Vasilia of the Plousios could not close her eyes. She couldn’t keep track of their position at all, not in this blasted dark, but so long as her eyes were open she could at least guess. How many turns, how many degrees? How long down each hallway? Dolce might have managed it, but every moment her thoughts lingered on him was like placing her bare hands on a burning stove. So she lies still. She breathes. And she keeps her eyes open.

A door slides open with a flash of blinding light, and her heart skips a perilous beat against Bella’s chest.

A bed. She’s been hurled onto a bed. And not the kind surrounded by new and creative ways to slowly dismember a prisoner while keeping them alive to scream. A normal, exquisite, rather large bed, in a rather large bedroom. Of course it is. Was. A bedroom. Didn’t she know that if Bella had wanted to tear her apart, she’d have a cheering audience back on the Hermetic’s ship? There was no sense, no sense at all to take her all the way out here for such a purpose. She knew that for a fact, and had known it for a fact, and Bella certainly knew she knew, for the ‘Praetor’ possessed no tools or intimate proximity that could’ve possibly clued her in otherwise. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha.

...a tad empty for a Praetor’s bedroom, now that she looks at it. Then again, Bella was no ordinary Praetor, was she?

“You know, I could ask you much the same question.” She stretches out, arching her back until the chains run taught as a bowstring, groaning in satisfaction as wearied muscles surrender and loosen. The sheets delight her fur; soft and crisp and free of any whiff of the ocean. (And hasn’t her life taken a dark turn when that was a blessing to appreciate.) Did she have to get up now? Couldn’t she savor this magnificent bed a few minutes more? She’d nearly nodded off in your arms on the way over here. It’s only fair to let her enjoy the accommodations. “For once, I’m inclined to believe you didn’t come here for Redana.” Was it just you, or did she put some extra emphasis on that name? “And while I’d be flattered to think you’d come all this way just to see me, there are more efficient ways of getting a girl’s attention. Not that I mind the effort.~” She lifted herself to a sitting position. Slowly, careful of the chains, lidded eyes twinkling in quiet amusement. “Why are you here, Bella? Why indeed...”

A pause. Teetering on the brink of a final, dangerous answer.

“Ah. But you have been on your best behavior, haven’t you?” Thoughtful. Privately contemplative. Still loud enough for Bella to hear anyway. All games aside - well, most games aside - it was an...improvement, over their last encounter. She might even go so far as to say that Bella had performed her part admirably well. Birmingham in the dark, the two of them alone, no reason for undue suspicion, and all without any prior planning or practice?

Her jaw set in a flash of frustration. Dammit all, had she been dealing with the shapeshifter this whole time? At least part of the time, surely? Impossible, that Bella - Bella! Of all people! - could have pulled this off on her own. If she had, then...then! Well, then what a shame for the myriad of other disqualifying factors. Talent like that shouldn’t be wasted on Tellus.

“Yes...I suppose so...” She breathes, and this musing truly was for her alone. With a slight nod, she graciously accepts the offered cup. “Very well. I take it you saw the enormous time cannon on your way here?”

She takes a light sip, awaiting Bella’s response. Tell us, what vintage have you selected for your honored guest, Praetor?

Breathless Dead

“If you think it’s such a poor idea, then go ahead and say so.”

“Very well. I think it’s a terrible idea, for no real benefit, at great personal risk to yourself, and you will almost certainly regret it.”

Vasilia sputtered, glaring daggers at her friend’s reflection in the vanity mirror. “You - you’re not supposed to actually say so!”

“If you don’t like the answers, ma’am, you should stop asking the questions.”

“Hmph. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“...no. I rather think I wouldn’t.”

It was unfair, how little room for anger that left her. She let slip a long, tired sigh as she sank back into her chair. “It’s this famine relief bill, Alethea. We need it. Our people need it. And no matter what I try, Senator Demetris will not listen to heart or reason. So. I am trying a change in approach. Meeting them in the middle.”

“Or, in this case, at the races.”

“Would that he had any more suitable hobbies we could bond over-”

“Do you even want to?” Her hands tightened to fists, and Vasilia grew deeply worried for her mirror’s safety. “He all but runs the races, and it is the least heinous way he spends his free time. Why should you have anything to do with him? Why should anyone?!”

“What other options do I have?” Please, Alethea. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. “All my attempts at building opposition coalitions are moving at a crawl.” Can’t you see she’s been trying? “He’s got too many in his pocket to sponsor a challenger at the next Games.” They have to win this one, someway, somehow. “And I’ve had my budgetary pouring over the budgets for any other surplus we might use. Over a month, and we’ve not got a quarter of what we need.” If the price of failure was starvation for many, shouldn’t they choose the plan most likely to succeed? “We’re on a time limit, and if bending a little will get us over the finish line, then that’s what it must take.”

Silence. The pressing, suffocating silence absent of answer or approval. Despite how dearly she wished for either.

“So...what are you going to do when it comes time to end the races?” Like we promised?

She didn’t have to say it. They both remembered. And all Vasilia could do was bury her face in her hands.

“...I’ll figure something out.”

********************************************************************

Vasilia’s fur is rough. But, perhaps, not as rough as you were expecting? She’s trying, the poor, misguided kitten. It can’t be easy, living off the scraps that fell from Tellus decades, or even centuries ago. Who was around to teach her the different treatments for a lustrous coat? Did she even know all fur wasn’t the same? There is damage, there is that awful reek of laser - seriously, first lesson, a real study of scentwork - but hopeless? Mmm, maybe not entirely hopeless. In the right hands, of course.

Does her build please you more, Praetor? Here, the quality of the scrapyard shines! She is not prepared to burst through her jacket with an errant flex, nothing nearly so unwieldy and excessive. No, everywhere your hand rests, it rests upon a bedrock of toned muscle. Solidly built, yet not forgetting flexibility; a career skirmisher, surely, adept in sudden, decisive strikes. And while your hands feast, the Auspex devours her whole. All that she is, all that she might be, all that you might make of her. What couldn’t you do with such a canvas? Her lungs already know how to take breath and turn it to power. Run her on the marathon track, coax the hunger within her, and her last step would be as perfect as the first. Put a javelin in her hand, teach her body the shape of the throw, and they would sing songs of her deeds.

And oh, how you could make that body bend.

Your clever fingers tease out such secrets from her. The way to pet her fur. The most sensitive spots. The thrumming muscles fighting to keep shivers from racing down her arm. Her claws slowly, idly, work open and closed in the most idle of gestures, but you know. You know she moves because she cannot bear to stay still. But the real prize comes when you hold her close. When your heart beats through her. No ear may hear, not even yours, but against your arms you feel the lowest, faintest rumble of contentment, deep, deep in her chest. So deep, perhaps, that she herself is not even aware of it.

She opens her mouth, and we must now address the voice, and the talent with which she wields it.

Your attentions would break the concentration of lesser wills, at least, but has she stumbled once? Hardly! You wrap yourself tight around her, and she sings out all the clearer! Hear her sing a story of her own imagining, a story you know she must be making up as she goes, but the ringing of her voice! The sharpness of detail! How could it be anything but the truth? You must have been sailing the stars, on an unspecified errand from the Empress herself, when the signs brought you to the Eater of Worlds. You must have thwarted the goonish Admiral Odacer, who lazed about with her vast Armada while you slipped through her lines. Do you remember now? You walked among the veteran Ceronians of old, a living soul in the land of the dead, right up until that oaf Odacer saw the Eater’s fins waving in the cosmic winds and thought her old foe had returned to life. How the ground beneath your feet trembled at the terrible broadside! But ah! As surely as you stand here before them, you escaped! With the speed of Hermes and the might of Zeus, you escaped from certain doom, and continued your quest undaunted!

(Clever girl, not mentioning the Princess, or your past meeting. No one listening could discern your true objective. No one would know the shape of your history with your prisoner, unless you yourself told them. Surely she didn’t have to go that far, and yet!)

She bows to thunderous applause, your applause, and what a pet she might make, hrm? What might you do with such a creature, with the proper time and material to train her for the collar? But your thoughts are interrupted as she rises, gives a halting wave to the room, then collapses into your arms with a pained gasp.

“Ah! Hold, a moment, hold...where’s...that’s not...” She babbles, her eyes glazed, distant, searching. You watch the color drain from her face, and feel her breath come in short gasps. Alas! What trouble plagues your prisoner, your new pet? Was the excitement of the evening just too much for her? Does an old wound (no doubt ill-patched by these backwater quacks) return to torment her?

Your Auspex informs you that she is perfectly healthy, and that this is as transparent a ruse as they come.

Yes, yes, she’s fine. A clever trick of stagecraft, to carefully adjust her breathing without it being obvious, then lean into the symptoms with a little acting. With the sympathies of the crowd already with her, no one will begrudge you time in private to see to her health. Which is obviously what she wants. A diversion? A chance to get more information, without Birmingham listening in? Whatever it is, it’s probably stupid.

And yet. She trusted you to catch her.

Maybe you’ll make something of this pet after all.

What do you do, Bella?

Fellowship: The Heart

The word is lucky.

Whether motivated by what havoc her double may wreak if set free, an instinct to preserve her own life, or blind panic at pain and asphyxiation, Jackdaw fights back. Or, no, not quite fights. She can’t fight...she can’t fight this. No, she flails. She tosses her limbs about with reckless abandon, a total disregard for form or strategy, and in the chaos a foot catches her double square in the chest.

The reflection sputters, a name dying on their lips as the wind is knocked from their lungs. Without thinking, their grip loosens. Just for a moment.

Wolf pounces, surging forward in a river of lean muscle and adrenaline, dragging a startled fox in her wake. Direction? Destination? The strangled coughs of her passenger? All ignored. She was wholly devoted to the task of putting as much distance between themselves and the mirror, and all the rest would have to wait.

Jackdaw skids along the ground, curled up in a ball away, away from the cruel mirrors. Burned and gasping and eyes shut tight against the world, because maybe if she couldn’t see any of it, it might not be real. It wasn’t her best idea, but then again, she’d not had many good ones lately.

None of the three would notice the patch missing from Jackdaw’s sleeve, still fluttering in the mirror.

Not yet, anyway.

[That’s a 7 on Overcome, choosing a temporary solution.]

Breathless Dead

Assumptions define the form of engagement. The murder. The duel. The trial by combat.

The sparring match.

That blade is not sharp. I don’t need the heavy armor. A weave light enough to dance with, tight enough to hug skin without getting in the way, thick enough to block bruises, this is all they need.

There is nothing at stake. Everything is permitted. There are no expectations. I can give my all, and beyond my all, without fear. I can fly, I can sweep, I can bend blade and body until both might snap under the tension, then fall to floor and laugh until I cannot breath.

They aren’t trying to hurt me. I can pretend the fall was serious. I can dictate my last living will. I can school the smile from my face as they take my broken form in their arms, cursing the cruel fates that cut down such a prized flower in the springtime of its youth. I can cough my last words in a hoarse whisper. They can lean down to hear. Closer, closer, closer...

This is all a game. I tickle their ear with my breath, it is a joke. To make them laugh. Their hair falls on my face. It must be on purpose. They don’t mean to brush my cheek, pushing it away. I go along with it when I reach up to stroke theirs. We will laugh later. It is a game. It is all a game. We have stopped moving because...because...

The match will end. Alethea will come to call us for dinner. We will be seeing to our weapons. We will rise, salute, and she will say nothing of anything on the way home and neither will I.

I don’t know if she would have closed the distance.

...would I?

**************************************************************************

This can't be happening.

How. In the name of all that is sacred. Did she get an Auspex?!

Quickly. Quickly. What had Redana said it did? It allowed her to..."see beyond sight, from visible to invisible, and all that might be?" How was that even remotely useful?! Freeform poetry was not a suitable substitute for a tactical report! Oh, but she shouldn't be too harsh on her, it's not like she expected there to be a second bloody Auspex floating around the universe! Zeus, your sentence of silence is revoked, only if you can explain to her how this was allowed to happen! And if you can't answer that, then, what good even are you?!

steel yourself. quickly. before she notices. slow your breathing. slower, slower, but not too slow. don't make it look deliberate. it is a beautiful morning, dolce has brought you your coffee, it's perfect, just the way you like it, oh gods above no it's making it worse. it won't stop.

her heart's racing, and it won't stop

"Mm, you’re so much more...eloquent than when we last met. Is this what you’ve been using your shapeshifter for? Practicing for the day we’d meet again?” She squeezed Bella’s hand. “If you wanted a song, all you had to do was ask, darling.~"

She rose from the bow with a great sweep of her free hand, as far as the chains would comfortably allow. "Come! To all who may hear; listen!" Her voice boomed, cutting clean through song and conversation alike. "Listen! And I will tell you a tale of a land long forgotten. Of Empires and beasts, and what grew in their shadow. Of a thousand thousand tombstones that could not hold fast the fallen! For this is the tale of Praetor Bella, who stepped into the corpse of the Eater of Worlds, and walked amongst the living dead!"

She squeezed at Bella's hand again. Only, different. Fingers, alternating, in combination, in a steady rhythm, a repeating pattern. A clever invention of the Starsong, for when mouths must be silent and words must be spoken. A simple code, child's play for the Auspex to decipher:

<<Thanks for the spotlight, darling.>>

Well, Bella? You know how this particular story ends: Embarassingly. You could stop her, of course! One quick twist of the arm, and she won’t talk for screaming. And everyone will know that you feared what she had to say next. What do you suppose the Magos will do, when he knows she carries a secret that you wouldn’t bear to have out? She may not be your prisoner for very long, then!

You could let her go on! What does it mater, if everyone here knows exactly how tightly you and Redana were trussed and gagged together? You are still the Praetor, even if you teased out some fascinating noises from your former mistress. Nothing will change. But that precious Auspex of your will let you see the thought on everyone’s mind. Every bow, every scrape, they’ll remember. And you’ll know it.

But there is a third option.

<<If you want me to exercise poetic liscence on your behalf>> Vasilia squeezed. <<Then you’d better make it worth my while. Now.>>

The Auspex knows the code. It can tell your muscles precisely how to talk back to her, and no one will be any the wiser.

So, Bella. What do you do?

[That’s going to be a 6 + 4 + 1 = 11 on Talk Sense w/Blood. Paying the Price by revealing information she’d rather keep hidden: Bella, you know that you’ve gotten in her head in a big way. She legit doesn’t know if you would have gone through with the kiss, and doesn’t know what she would have done herself if you had. If you keep clawing at this weak spot, it’ll surely grow, keeping her confused. Off-balance. And importantly, pliable.]

Breathless Dead

A yawn worked its way out of Vasilia, and she offered little resistance. The chains clinked only a little as it rolled up her back. Her eyes nearly closed as it peered into the room. A hand did the bare minimum to stifle the noise, but let no one say she hadn’t tried, whereafter she resumed her busy work of magnanimously presiding over the party’s going-ons.

Which was more than could be said for other guests of honor, who were far more concerned with slopping as much wine as possible down their throat in as short as time as possible. Oh, by all means, don’t let her stop you. We wouldn’t want you not to enjoy yourself, would we? It’s a party! Cut loose! No one will tell that you’re drunk. At least until you’re out of earshot.

She offered no resistance to the entirely unnecessary manhandling she received, and drank the wine in slow, graceful sips, even as it was poured down her mouth. Not a gulp or a gag to be heard. “Ah, thank you darling, I was getting rather parched.” She sighed contentedly. “The Magos’ hospitality has left much to be desired.” Oh, and the Praetor had counsel to give her too! What good fortune! She’d better listen attentively now, wouldn’t want to miss any of the precious pearls cascading endlessly out of her stupid mouth.

Had she not already committed to the placid, regal smile, she might have ruined the entire look with a devastatingly undignified yelp as she was flung bodily around the room. As it stood, she landed before Bella, the music reached her ears, and instinct took over from there. Her hands found their way to her partner’s body. Her back arched until her hair dusted the floor. And they were off.

Ah! So! Bella was rather strong for her build! Marvelous! Yes, yes, very...yes. Alright then. Of course. No, no, it’s fine. She’s fine. So what if the gods saw fit to bless her with titanic strength too? Life wasn’t fair. She wasn’t even surprised at this point.

If Bella wanted to put on a show, a show is precisely what she got. Every step she was pushed into, Vasilia performed with extravagance and relish. Together, they formed a symphony of motion, exulting in the sheer pleasure of movement. So transcendent, one could hardly notice the chains. At every group they stopped at, Vasilia shone as brightly as her partner, at least. And still found time to greet the Hermetics by name and station.

Do you see, Bella? Do you see the way they greet her back? The way their eyes linger, as you twirl her away before she can say more? Even now, despite the chains, they remember her, and wish a little more of her company. See all the people who actually like her? And yet Zeus hasn’t stopped by to mock your life, has she? Why hasn’t anyone, for that matter? Surely waiting for nature to take its course wasn’t the most efficient way to go about things, was it?

She did not look away from Epestia’s plight. She did not speak of it. Nor did she look away when Alexa came whirling onto the dance floor. She did not speak of that either, but her eyes glittered merrily. Isn’t this fun, Bella? Are you having fun, yet? You indulgent, pissy, wreck of a soul, are you happy now?!

(Of course she wasn’t. Not in any way that mattered.)

“Are Praetors capable of such feats? I had no idea.” She mused, twirling into the other Bella’s arms. “Perhaps you could enlighten me?~”

She traced a finger up the length of Bella’s shirt, counting each button in turn. Skirting perilously close to her neck, before gliding to her shoulder.

“Does Nero know you’ve been a bad girl? Losing your collar without permission?”