TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Ah.

His first thought is to apologize. Carefully. It’s a fine line to walk, telling her he didn’t mean to dredge up painful memories, make light of her situation, without making her feel guilty for snapping at his ignorance. She had already apologized herself, after all. Mosaic? A subject best avoided for now, only to be referenced obliquely. A mention of a silver lining, that they had both retained enough of themselves to remain friends this whole time. Runs parallel to her advice. Then, perhaps, offer to fetch her a snack, to show there are no hard feelings.

But Dolce remembers the taste of canned coffee.

He looks back up at a Praetor, and Dolce of Beri sets his face in the closest approximation to determination he can manage at the moment. “Alright. I will.” He lets fear shake his voice. He lets anger draw him tight. He lets love hold him steady. “I’d like to do just that.”

He has to bend down, and reach his arms as far as they will stretch to grasp and lift his little desk. “I’d also like to accompany you. For a while longer. You know the ship’s population better than I do, if I have any questions. But, also.” A little smile quirks his mouth. “The idiot voice wants me to accompany you too.”

Return to Thellamie

He’ll have you know that he would not blurt out anything about Encouragement, thank you very much. Not here nor anywhere. But especially not when his mouth is full of eggs and sausage. Warm, but not so hot it burns. The meat reminds him of the gyros from that Mediterranean place his family would go to, where it’s not any one meat, but a combination of flavors into something new. Don’t ask him which flavors. It’s too early in the morning for big questions like that. It’s savory, it’s rich, it hits the spot, and that’s more than enough for him. Don’t ask him why Negodincia would think him hot either. Morning. Way too big. Can’t do it.

Now, there’s other things he’s trying to speak up about, but there still seem to be a lot of eggs and sausage in the way. You’d think that was an easy problem to fix, but it’s far trickier than that. When he’s finished a bite of breakfast, Juniper is still talking. Or the huntress (A Bagyum, possibly? What rank was that again?) is talking. And he’s not going to interrupt them, no. The blanket lump will shift as he raises a hand, trying to signal for silence, but before he can get the point across Juniper’s giving him another forkful. Have you ever tried to not eat something that somebody’s offered you? He certainly hadn’t! It’s really tough! The food is just sitting there. Waiting. Juniper’s looking at him. The huntress is looking at him. If there’s a way to make that moment any less awkward, it was a technique that was beyond him. Open up. Munch munch munch. Aaaaaaaaaand they’re still talking, it’s all important, so he’s got to listen closely, and it starts all over again.

(He is ravenous. He didn’t realize how empty he was until he’d tasted food. A big day. His first duel. Travel across Thellamie to places unknown. Pack rations keep a body on its feet, but do not make a proper meal. The gold-lined bowl is full of hearty, proper breakfast, and if you asked him he’d be hard-pressed to say if it would be enough for him.

Juniper is a trained sluzhanka. The fork rises with enough to make a mouthful, not enough to struggle with. Time her with a stopwatch; each bite is presented like clockwork. She keeps him at a pace where he has no choice but to relax, take his time, and savor this gift of a meal. An honored guest is not required to do anything else.

It only takes him a few bites to learn to stay still, and let her bring the fork to him. Later he will talk, and he will pause to open his mouth wide for her without thinking. Do imagine some of the following punctuation as breakfast breaks.)

“To be fair, the folks at the Chrysthanamum didn’t make me do a bunch of chores. I did have to do some chores, but like, not more than anyone else. I didn’t have to scrub dishes all day and sleep in a half-full cupboard. Really, I mostly just worked as a waiter. Taking orders, bringing people their food, making sure everyone was having a good time, that sort of thing. It was a good job, and, they didn’t force me to do anything more than that. Oh, and they gave us plenty of breaks, good food, and really, they were doing all this to give me a place to hide. Or, well, that was the idea, anyway. But that’s, I’m going off on a tangent there. Just, didn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

“I'm glad to not be doing Negocinda’s chores! That's very good.”

He hasn’t even mentioned Alcideo. Or Miss Yaz. Or all the other folks who worked alongside him at the cafe. Or the deliciousness spell. Or the soft beds and quiet dormitories. Or the, uh, very clear feedback and instruction he was given. But he’s rambling now. Way past rambling. Move it along, Hazel, move it along.

“So. Sluzhankas.” Plural. Gosh. “I remember the general idea. And some of the details from our talks. The plan makes sense.” And he’s very, very happy that plan does not involve elephant-wrestling. Or fighting the. Um. Mirrorfolk. (He breathes in freshly-cooked sausage. He remembers sweet flowers.) “So. First question: How do I…have sluzhankas? Practically speaking? I mean, I understand the idea of it, but, in practice, how do I, are there things I’m supposed to do or else I’m no longer shielded?”

“And are they okay in there? That doesn’t look. Comfortable?”

“...that’s two questions, but, you get what I mean.”

[Activating Friendly Benefits on Juniper.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce’s had a desk brought out. From a different room, he’s brought a comfortable chair to sit in while he works. The heights don’t quite match up, but then again, his height didn’t match up to aesthetic perfection either. He whispers a prayer of thanks that the birds were unable to fix that too. He only pauses his pen when she’s finished speaking.

“Hrm.”

The wind plays at his curls, without disturbing a single sheet of paper.

“It’s good advice. Perhaps we ought to post signs, reminding our crew to try writing out a wish to Hades before attempting the next coup. If anyone steps forward without proof of documentation, then we can declare their plot null and void. Quite the timesaver.” Is he filling out his next form? Sketching out a poster design? Formulating a wish himself? These are all questions. “It is all good advice. Have something valuable to aim at. Too valuable to risk for another good. Even if…”

He falls silent. Still. The papers offer no help, though he stares long at them. Gently, carefully, he returns his pen to its holder. The documents are already straight; he tidies them up anyway, and sets a weight on each stack for good measure. He has to stand on his chair, on tiptoe, reaching past the top of his desk to -snap! snap! some decorative latches. The whole top of the desk lifts up, separating cleanly into a workstation perfect for a lap. Dolce trundles over with his precious cargo, sets it and himself down beside Bella’s sofa, and rests his back against it as he gets back to work.

“To answer your question: Yes.” He says, wearily. “It hurts rather badly. It was a lot easier dealing with wrongs at a distance, and in hindsight. Now? I can do something. I’m sure I have to do something. But I’ll only get one shot. No second chances, no wasting it. So until the time comes, I have to sit with a world gone wrong and just bear it. For as long as it takes. Even if,” and his stomach turns, and his shoulders hunch with shame. “Even if it hurts, and I don’t. Know the heads of the Skies well enough to…hesitate. Enough.”

As if he has the right to even think such a thing. As if Dolce of Beri is the one to decide who lives and who dies. As if those reprimands made the thought any less tempting.

“I’m glad you have Gaia to aim at.” He moves on. Quickly. “It’s, well, it’s a little more complicated for me. When I saw you’d remembered some of the voyage, I wanted to talk to you about it, but then Summerkind, wolves, assassins; I never got the chance until now.” He plays with his pen. Something to keep his fingers busy. His mind’s too busy for important work. “I don’t know how it is for you. It sounds like you remember quite a bit more than me. When I think back, it’s like looking down at a planet through a cloudbank. I see some things clearly, I know some things happened, but the further I get away the foggier it gets. I know I was standing on this planet, and such-and-such was happening, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there, or where I went afterwards. Between two points, was that five minutes, or five months? Which order did they come in, really? How can I know whether or not I’ve got it all back?” A question he’s not keen on exploring too deeply. There may not be a bottom to that well. “I can’t be sure any wish I think of now is the same wish that’s carried me thus far. All I can do is trust that, if the wish was important enough, I’d find my way back to it again.”

And there’s Zeus right over there. And there’s Aphrodite’s breath, still tinging the air with longing. And here’s a sheep, watching them both. Observing. Thinking.

Waiting.

“...could I ask you for a story? From before we reached the Skies.” He’s settling down with his work. Reclining against the soft furniture. “Maybe that will knock something loose. It’d be worth a try, at least.” His head rests so, so close to her hand. It will not take much effort to reach over. To let her fingers sink deep, deep into those soft, luxuriant curls. They grow so thick, so strong, that no claw could hope to accidentally nick his skin. If one’s senses were keen enough, how many hours could be whiled away, exploring all the ways his wool is lovely to the touch?

He won’t mind. He’s not going anywhere. Except to give the slightest sway, to give the slightest jingle, to invite her attention.

Return to Thellamie

Fragmenthold! He'd never heard of Fragmenthold before! A lot of Yuki's adventures had been in and around Crevas, and h’d only picked up a smattering of Khaganate territory from little asides in the group chat. It sounded old. And the way she said fragments sounded like it could be with a capital F. Fragments of what? Of everything? Of the past? How did you know what fit together? How hard was it to find missing pieces? Did people come here looking for things they'd lost? And, ooh! Crabs! Of course there were crabs here. There were crabs everywhere. Crab finds a way. And, oh, huh, a shield could be good for him? Or. Hrm. That's actually a really good question. He hadn't really thought of fighting in styles. He hadn't really thought of-

Snap!

Hazel jumps. A lump of heavy blankets wiggles. Trains of thought derail on contact with huntress. Fifty thinkie pileup. Millions injured.

Sorry. Sorry. He didn't mean to sidetrack. He just got excited. He'll keep a lid on it. Won't happen again.

Unless? Unless. Is Juniper not in trouble? She doesn't look very in trouble. She might not be in trouble? They might still be good? Except now Juniper's armed with a forkful of eggs, looking expectantly at him for an answer, except when she's looking back at her huntress, and heaven knows where the huntress is looking but she's definitely watching them closely.

This is a confusing breakfast.

Okay. So. Look. Juniper? Juniper. This is really sweet, and he appreciates the effort a lot. He knows how important the Queen of Light is for Thellamie, and the part he’s got to play in her crowning. He gets it now. But it's just Hazel. CinnamonDrumroll. Yuki's friend. It's okay. You don't have to roll out the royal Khaganate welcome for him. It’ll be easier on everybody, he won't mind. You all are doing more than enough, keeping him safe until the Ball. You don't have to hand-feed him too. Really, you don't.

(Encouragement.)

Hazel freezes, the refusal poised on his tongue.

(She's looking to the huntress for Encouragement.)

Juniper is very close. He can see the radiant blush on her cheeks. The shiver that runs from tail to eartip. The dreamy, happy smile.

The huntress is not so close. Her face is shadowed and painted in shadows. The smoke from the campfire drifts around her in hazy waves. But she is pleased. Don't ask how he knows it, he couldn't tell you. But everything in this tent is hers, and follows her wishes, and the body that wrestled a dragon sits in perfect, contented stillness.

Her eyes pierce smoke, distance, and Fawn with equal ease. They hold him in place almost as easily as one of her arms. Almost.

The cocoon of blankets feels. Oddly loose. Against his body. All of a sudden.

Hazel decides to shut his mouth.

Ha. Ha. Haaa. Hum. Well. You know. This…is a gift, right? So. It’d be rude to refuse it? Especially if he is. Um. An, honored guest, here, for her. Not even the regular guests at the Chrysanthemum refused the staff’s services. Could you imagine? No no, don't trouble yourself, the kitchen is right over there, I'll just pop over and get my own snacks. Who would do such a thing?

And. It was nice helping out there, wasn't it?

Juniper’s joy hadn't dimmed, nor had the fork dropped an inch.

“Well.” His voice is a little winded when he finally catches it. Hushed, and cracking. “I don't really have any sluzhankas,” and boy! That word! Is harder to say than type! “So. I suppose, it’d be okay if you did it.”

Did the customers ever feel so flushed and fluttery making their orders? No. Nah. Definitely not. They were all professionals at this sort of thing.

Breathless Dead

"I have several stacks of forms taken from my last job, and I can reproduce the ones I do not have. I would be happy to put them to good use." It's something. It's more than standing still. No, it's much, much better than standing still. A bit of the tension leaks from him, finding a direction to move in.

He can help her to a more appropriate spot. Or he can bring his desk here. He'll do either. He'll do anything.

Wherever and whenever they are, there comes a moment when he stops. A thought, at last, has come into view. "You could tell. You could tell right away that the Azura here weren't the ones to target." He says it without judgement. Just a simple truth. "You're right, I know you're right, but I didn't think about it until you said it."

Above him, a thousand thousand worlds upended to create a pretty picture. About him, the god of love calls it good. In his hands, he straightens his papers. Unnecessarily.

"Does it feel like this...all the time? Holding a knife, when someone you want to use it on is. Right there? It's, well, it's quite a lot. So much that...even though I know you're right. I didn't think about it until you said it."

Dolce of Beri looks to Bella the Deodekoi, Praetor of Nero.

"How did you manage it? All this time?"

Return to Thellamie

PraxisPackSis has entered the chat.

Yes, maybe there’s another Aestivalian nun of Civilia working in the Khaganate, but he’d know that face anywhere. It’s Juniper. Real. Here. In the flesh! And, wait, she’s? For this huntress?

His heart does a happy flutter on her behalf. He’d heard she’d gotten quite involved with the Khaganate with her work, but wow! Wow! Good for her! And for her to be with the same huntress looking after him? What are the odds?

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He thinks about putting his head back down on the pillow. The math gets complicated. He looks over to the Serigalamu. He swallows. “Is it okay for me to get up now?

She blinks. She blinks again. She glances at Juniper. (He should’ve added a please. Now it’s too late.) She meets his eyes, and

Nods. Once. Slowly, with propriety and intent.

It’s difficult to tell, with the air a smidge hazy from the fire, and his eyes are still muddled with sleep, but the corner of her mouth quirks, just a bit. A spark that colors all her shadowed face.

(Another smile. Okay. She’s okay. He’s okay. Maybe.)

Now he just needs to…if he wiggles like so...grips through the layers, gets his shoulder in under there…scoot, scoot, scoot, get the rest wrapped around…and tuck and fold and shake and tuck…there!

The flat lump of blankets has transformed into an upright lump of blankets, all without losing a bit of its precious, cozy warmth to the cruel elements. His head and antlers are just about all that can be seen; with his masterful technique, he’s wrapped great folds of the blankets around both arms, so he can both curl up nice and tight and also easily peek his hands out to handle breakfast.

Now that he is properly, formally seated:

“Juniper! Hi!” The blanket pile shakes in a rough approximation of waving. “I’m. Trying not to yawn. Goodness. Sorry, it’s been…a heck of a trip so far, still waking up. But.” Do your worst, sleep. Do your worst, bad decisions and painful days. Hazel Valentine Fletcher needs no horns to glow; his face will manage just fine. “We’re in the Khaganate. I’m here.”

He could just about vibrate right through the floor in excitement.

Breathless Dead

He could feel when she was nervous.

In her defense, it was a lot easier when he was nestled in her lap, hugged tight to her chest, with her breath (or sudden lack thereof) tickling his ears. She’d spent ages learning how to silently, gravitationally lock their doors. It wouldn’t do to disparage the effort.

Besides, it didn’t make the rest of it any easier.

“Of course, I have no concrete plans,” and he couldn’t tell if she’d dreamed this up today or had a full suit hiding in the closet. “Beri is woefully lacking in tournaments of honor, and the Crystal Knight may take offense if I were to outshine her at the next parade,” and. Hrm. On the off chance that wasn’t a joke? He trusted she’d done a proper amount of math on that. “But,” she sighs, and all he can hear is star-flung longing. “If a girl’s to dream, she may as well dream in detail, no?”

In his hands, a little book. In the book, sketches. Drawings. Palettes. And one illustration they all built to.

Dolce thinks. Long enough to give it proper consideration. Not so long she would suffer.

He could feel how she was nervous.

“If I were to see you like this? I may not survive the experience. I’m not sure you’d consider that a flaw.”

A rumble of approval rolls through her, and into him. “Do you know why I picked these colors?”

“The purple, it’s from the Starsong, no? I remember, you told me of the first time you really, really looked at space from within it. You saw colors you didn’t even know could exist. One in particular stuck with you.”

“And I’m still not convinced the shade is quite correct.”

“The gold is from Lakkos, and from you. Your family loved it. You wanted something better.”

“Is it a crime to deserve the best?”

“This cream-white,” he taps with his finger. Sure enough, the colors match exactly. “I don’t see many knights with white in their colors. I don’t think it’s just because of the Skies either. It must be rather difficult to keep clean in battle. Other colors, you have a little more leeway, a better chance for stains to stay hidden.”

There’s a silent permission given. She doesn’t have to do this for him. He doesn’t need to see her fly to battle in his colors to know how she cares.

“Mm.” Her arms wrapped tight. Her fingers dug deep. “I shall simply have to be better than everyone, then.”

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

Bella!

You may be the only one here who can hear Dolce before he makes himself heard.

-jinglle jinglle jinglle-

The two of you may be the only ones who know it’s a different bell now.

He stops in front of your couch. His outfit is precisely as perfect as all of your surroundings. Even when he turns to face you, you cannot find a bad angle to view him from. The humble, yet elegant vest even goes with his collar.

Blue. Woven with several other matching blues.

“What. Have they done. To make you give them that much faith.”

You. You. Give them the benefit of the doubt. A courtesy. You. There’s a question. For you, Praetor. He needs to know. Please don’t answer.

“I think.” He doesn’t wait. “I have forgotten to thank you. Properly. For Sanalessa.” He doesn’t bow. “Artemis entrusted her to me. She. Was gracious enough to teach me much, about.” He doesn’t look away. “Many things. It would have been. Improper. To lose her, and all the gifts of a goddess, before we were.”

“Finished.”

He doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t dare blink.

“So. Is there something I can do for you. To thank you?”

Praetor. Bella. Friend.

Please.

Give him something to do that he won’t regret.

Return to Thellamie

Sluzhanka.

Noun.

Someone who has been caught by a huntress of the Khaganate, serving said huntress until such a time as they can evade another hunt. Ownership, care, and training of sluzhanka is a key component of a huntress’ honor and status. As they are both servant and trophy, they often travel publicly with their owners and provide support during hunts. Thus, poor behavior and upkeep not only reflects badly on the huntress, but also threatens the success of the hunt. This can lead to other huntresses attempting to win the sluzhanka for themselves in a series of challenges, posturing, and other such maneuvers.

The origin of this tradition is very old and very important. Hazel cannot remember it right now. Please don’t tell PraxisPackSis. Wait. No, that’s. Juniper. Yes. Don’t tell Juniper.

While you’re not doing that, he’ll keep lying perfectly still, and also breathing.

It’s very tricky. Being still. Between staring inoffensively at her ankles and contemplating local trivia, he has plenty to keep himself busy. Yet no matter how hard he tries, his body keeps trembling. (Light pricks. His body moves. Her nails do not.) He can’t breathe quietly. (Gasps. Faint yelps. Half-caught and fighting to escape.) He’s making no progress on becoming an obediently inanimate object. So he has to keep existing. Here. In this conversation.

This long. Long. Conversation.

Perhaps. Hrm. Perhaps? Perhaps he’s meant to say something here. You know, that just might be it. The meaning is obvious. She’s going to be doing the cooking, which is very nice of her. He’s not to get up. So. She’s obviously waiting for him to say something. Or nodding. It could also be nodding. She’s expecting an answer. He should say something. He should do something. At least.

His neck inches around, and ha ha ha wow she is. Here. Over him. That is. Hrm. A lot. Taller. Than he thought she’d be. Crouching down. (She’s not done talking. Don’t interrupt.) You know what’s fun? Looking at the walls. Over there. (Don’t look at her.) Golly, what neat patterns! See, he can follow that line, and it traces out in a spiral around “mphh!”

Okay! Now she’s done talking!

Neat!!!

“That, wasn’t really my job, you know,” the bundle of blankets replied with a normal laugh. (It wasn’t his idea.) “I served everybody, not just. That. Is to say, I had tables, and I served whoever was at them. I don’t think we had any ladies-only servers?”

Nothing.

“And I never got promoted to dancing either.” (He wasn’t a dancer. Here or there.) “A couple of folks also did that, sometimes. But that happened elsewhere, the cafe was too small. And, I was good working there, so I didn’t ask.”

He speaks to a mountain.

“I didn’t, intentionally strut? Maybe I did by accident, but, nobody ever said anything about it?”

The sausage sizzles noncommittally.

(Stop talking. You’ve said too much already. You should’ve waited for her to reply, and now you’ve overwhelmed her. Not everybody’s a morning person. Not everybody’s as excitable as you. Remember that. Lower the energy level when you’re talking with her.)

Well. He may not be an inanimate object, but he can stay lying down like one.

The bed is still warm. It feels all the warmer for the faint chill clinging to his skin. The blankets…gosh, he was too tired to appreciate them last night, but the blankets. He’s not sure he could carry them all. Thick, heavy, and the bottom layer was a tightly-woven pattern that felt so, so nice to rub against. And that was good. It’s nice. It’s nice to be snug and warm here.

It’s. A different sort of warmth from the beds at the Chrysanthemum. They didn’t have to use so many blankets, of course, on account of being indoors and the hot springs. It was more like, like, the air itself was a blanket. Inviting you to slow down, rest, take it easy. Welcome, weary hearts. You are in good company. You are among friends. You are doing good. You were safe. A soft, embracing warmth…

(Did she see your back.)

Hazel stops breathing.

(No. No, she, she had her hand on your back, and you’re still wearing the vest. She shouldn’t have, no, wait, where was it again? Shoulderblades? Lower than that? No, it was around the shoulderblades. How wide? How tall? Oh no no no no she looked away. She looked away fast. When you looked at her she looked away and looked embarrassed she saw it she saw it she saw it that’s why and she thinks you’re a she knows how do we explain we can’t we can’t no no no why did you say yes why did you let Miss Yaz do it why were you so stupid)

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

Olesya!

Only the tips of his antlers poke out from the blankets. But you are a skilled huntress. You know the value of patience in luring out a catch.

So you stand. So you wait. So you have faith in the power of a plate of freshly-cooked breakfast.

There. His thin fingers emerge; the bait is working. See them grip the blankets. See the lump shake as he wiggles his way out. The blankets are many; it takes him some time. There’s his messy curls. There’s his tired eyes. His curious little nose.

His mouth.

His lips.

See them purse as he swallows, musters his courage, and nods to you.

“Thank you.”

He’s lying on his back.

He’s not looking you in the eye.

He’s waiting for permission to rise.

But you might not know that last bit.

[Activating Friendly Benefits: Olesya gets a string on Hazel, and she says one thing she finds attractive about him.]

Return to Thellamie

He dreamed of safety. He dreamed of firm coils, of strong coils, working over his weary body. He dreamed of enforced stillness. He dreamed of a curious look in her eyes.

Her eyes.

Her.

He…he never did get her name….

Hazel stares at the roof of the tent, and eventually he will piece together that it is, in fact, a tent, and a real tent that he is sleeping in, at that. Eventually. First he’s got to wonder why he’s seeing it again, because he’s pretty sure he saw it a bit ago, and, then, it was really important, they were, he was going, but he’s forgotten what without forgetting the feeling. Then there’s the matter of moving. Or rather, he can’t move. Because he’s wrapped up. Completely. Definitely. Does he even have legs anymore? Or arms for that matter? There are conflicting reports. But he’s definitely being squeezed, unless he’s being squished, or maybe…maybe…say, why’s he seeing this ceiling again?

It’s breakfast that pulls him from the swamp of half-sleep at last. Dreams can muddle a lot of things. They have to work pretty hard to beat the call of freshly-made sausage and tea. And he has to work mighty hard to crane his neck up enough to beat the call of heavy, still-warm blankets.

Sore. Everything’s sore. Moving was a mistake. Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well. He’s up. Sort of. Up enough to be committed now. Blink away the fog. Squint into reality.

Behold; a wolf. Girl. Girl and wolf. Right. Those exist now.

She is. Wow. She is. Big.

(His eyes bounce from her middle to her broad shoulders. Automatically, without thinking. As if he could manage much thought right now. Around the back and neck and shoulders is safe and everybody knows that.)

She’s…making breakfast? She’s making breakfast for him? She’s already up, and, she’s making breakfast? For him?

Wow.

(He shifts, and he groans louder than he needs to. He’s just a little sore. It’s not that bad. But it’d be bad to startle her by suddenly talking.)

“Mornin’,” he says blearily, rustling (noticeably, audibly, just in case) from his nest of blankets. His face - well, his face from the nose up, at least - peeks out at the huntress. His eyes go to the fire. “There anything I can do t’help…?” And. He. Pushes himself up. With both arms. S..slowly. Slowly, now…

(A draft hits his back. He feels the chill bite at his skin. His mostly-bare skin.)

wait am I still wearing the-

Breathless Dead

From his perch on Vasilia’s lap, Dolce strains to twist bloody red branches of thought into the real thing. What does it look like? Is it red? Red does seem appropriate. It would stand out against the blue, utterly unignorable. Probably a scary sight to see suddenly appear in the sky. For as long as you had one, anyway. What are the barracks like? How do they know when it’s their turn to fight? Do they even take turns?

Do they do anything that isn’t for fighting?

Consider also that nothing here is accidental.

It is only the second example he’s seen with his own eyes, as it were. Up until now, it’s always been the Skies. This? This is what the Ceronians built when they at last overthrew the Azura. They built, with no one left to stand in their way. And this. This. They built. This.

Do they remember every battle? Every battle, from the first to the two hundred and fourteenth? Do they compare the skylines they’re bombarding with ones they’ve torn down before? Do they know the names of the people they slaughter?

Do they remember the Skies at all?

What do they have which is so worth striving for?

Dolce runs a fingers along the weaving thread of his collar[1]. His bell is respectfully silent.

“How do the Skies get anything done here?” Is the question he asks. “The Service will be at work here too, and countless other people. How do they work without losing themselves in their surroundings?” Is what he says after that.

Vasilia’s is the hand he holds. Soft skin squeezing sharp claws.



[1]: He has returned to the comfortable vests and aprons he loves so much, but the collar remained. Not the silver one, no. This one was a gift from a secret Ceronian admirer, who hand-delivered it with her two honor guards at a pre-arranged meeting point, but you didn’t hear it from me. This one is a woven band of some gentle yet strong fabrics, dyed in Vasilia’s colors.

His pretty clothes answer to Mistress Vasilia, and right now they belong to her alone. The collar is a reminder. Especially for the two of them.