The greatest traditions of the Starsong typically didn’t involve getting sidelined by a crashing shuttle bent on vehicular manslaughter, but most would chalk that up to opponents who weren’t trying hard enough. This one? Imperial as they were, this one was new.

Vasilia slowed to a halt just beyond the landing ramp. What greeted her was not the sight of another wave of phalanxes crashing down upon them, or the impossible workings of an esoteric to tilt the field of battle, but a single cat, collared and chained. 

Definitely new.

She sheathed her glaive and drew her saber, adopting a fencer’s ready stance, which conveniently concealed her other hand as it drifted to her pistol. “You know, I think you’ve missed some of the finer points of arriving…” She paused pointedly to consider the garish wreck. [i]”Fashionably[/i] late?”

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

Dolce emerged at Vasilia’s side, covering her as she exchanged gear and barbs. He tried to take in the shuttle, the sole member of the landing party, any alternate angles of approach, the forming Ceronians, his wife, a bit of the sky while he was at it, but there was just...it was the bells, you see. His eyes kept darting back to the bells. So many of them, all over her, on every limb. Impossible to move without a cacophony of ringing. What was she being punished for? Was sending her in alone a part of it? And if she was sent against them, then…

A terrible, aching pang echoed through his heart. And he hoped - oh, how he hoped he was wrong. That perhaps they could all leave together safely, and this cat could go home in glory, and that would be that. Shouldn’t he know of a god to pray to? Wasn’t there someone who could make it so?

But no names came to Dolce that day. No prayers passed his lips. 

All he could do was stand beside Vasilia, and await the worst.