[b]Redana![/b]

You walk along a path of soft soil.

The Eater of Worlds cracked planets with its beak, drinking in the molten core and processing the ores within into the constantly expanding armour plating of its shell. The thin upper crust of dirt and soil was useless to the beast and so remained in its mouth, piling up around the massive structures of its mouth like plaque, contaminated with whatever seeds and improperly chewed organic life happened to survive within. The lands around the hill town are thus not only rich with grown food plants made from the ship's stores but with all manner of strange plant life. Alien flowers, wild grasses, exotic dandelions that blow their seeds out to follow the strange air currents of this interior space. 

You follow the curve of that soft clay wall - less fragile than it appears due to the reinforcing strands of hypertensile materials harvested from the Lupincas and running crudely through its structure, but by no means durable. What it does seem to have been optimized for is slipperiness - you watch as a confused frog tries multiple times to jump onto the gentle angle of the wall's lower surface and slide smoothly down to the ground each time, suction caps useless against the frictionless surface. 

You hear the voices before you see them - aged and weathered like sea biscuits. "I'm telling you, I saw it! There was a fire in the sky, Leon!"
"You old coot, you just probably just saw the sun in a crystal again."
"Whatever happened to, 'I love you, Leon! I'll trust you with my life, Leon'!"
"That was before you called me to arrest your own shadow -"

You round the last corner and before you are two of the legendary warriors of Ceron.

The Ceronians are a servitor breed, but of all the servitors they are the most prestigious - wolf-aspected, phalanx instinct woven into their genetics. There has never been a more uniform and cohesive fighting force in the galaxy, fearless soldiers with almost telepathic understanding of each others awareness. One of the contingency plans drilled into you by your tutors is the secret location of Ceron - in the event of you escaping a coup against your reign, you are to go to Ceron and muster an army there that might be capable of defending you against the Armada itself.

But these aren't the vital, ferocious wolf-warriors of legend and battle plans. These are two old soldiers sitting under hand-woven yellow-and-pink umbrellas by the gate, intensely staring with fading eyes at the game of marbles laid out between them.

[b]Vasilia![/b]

Ramming is a natural part of void warfare. Ramming directly into a warship's plasma engines...

It's not really the done thing.

There are better ways to do it, normally. It's rare for a slower ship to turn tail on a faster one. It's rare for an ambush to strike for the narrow engines rather than the large and vulnerable sides. It's rare that a captain wants to see what happens if they put the nose of their ship into a constant flow of stellar plasma for a prolonged period of time...

With a hundred thousand viewscreens angled in this direction, this is a learning experience for the entire Armada.

The crunching, cracking enormity of impact runs through the [i]Plousios[/i]. The temperature starts to steadily rise as the point-blank plasma furnace of the [i]Veterosk[/i] crashes over your prow like the storm itself. The forces are impossible to control, but Poseidon's hand is here and he guides you relentlessly towards your destination. As fires start to erupt around you and your viewport glows red-hot you can see the shapes of salvation pods, plovers, and shuttles burst from the [i]Veterosk[/i] in all directions.

And then you order full stop.

With the added, wild, uncontrolled momentum the [i]Veterosk[/i] slams into the [i]Lupincas[/i] like a javelin.

[b]The Engine Deck![/b]

The Hermetician is the only one who is okay with this. There's a strange, serene calm about him as he goes through his work, tripod legs reflexively bracing against every tug and pull and shipquake. As the world falls into chaos, only those marked by Ares can keep their feet.

The rest of you? You are not right with the War God.

Laughter fills the room and smouldering coal-eyes gleam in the dark places. Ares emerges into the desaturated light of the engines, ruddy and bare chest illuminated by emergency lights, wooden war mask upon his grinning face. With a whoop and a howl he rips a pipe open, sending a spray of azure plasma fire in Dolce's direction. Then he snatches up a loose polywrench in either hand and rushes towards Alexa, blows cascading over each other in the brutal, uncaring rhythm of the mad. 

Both of you, roll to Overcome.

[b]Bella![/b]

"Of course, you're right," said Princess Redana, as you pull her up so that she almost falls into your arms. "[i]I[/i] don't understand [i]anything[/i] about mistress Redana."

It's the voice that's always so weird. It [i]is[/i] Redana's voice, but saying things that Redana would never say, in ways Redana would never say them. And then she's stepped away, hair changing with a flick from blonde to black-grey, face falling and sharpening and -

"I," said Admiral Odoacer with profound menace infusing every word, "will need you to do my hair."

If you had to study the Admiral then so did Mynx - if there was ever a role she'd have to play other than Redana's, it would have had to be the Admiral's. But Mynx's shapeshifting didn't come with free hairstyling, which was perhaps why the Admiral kept her hair in such an elaborate and severe bun. 

"And we can play twenty poisons while you do it!" said the shapeshifter, bubbly normal voice incongruously coming from the Admiral's mouth as she seized your arm girlishly. "First question! Empress Nero - fuck, marry, kill?"