[b]Redana![/b]

You work the flow of the star. You allow it to roar a little stronger, a little brighter - a trivial matter compared to what it is capable of but this celestial rounding error is the difference between life and death for everything aboard. You've had power all of your life, Redana, but it's never been so [i]immediate[/i] as this. The flow of fire that runs through these cables is life and death. The rising roar of the engine is creation and annihilation. Thin bands of rubber and polyalloy separate you from the primordial forces. The changes you make are immediate. The world you want to build comes into being exactly so. This isn't a dance of politics and shadows and hearts, this is immediate and visceral and percussive and you [i]understand[/i] why your mother still spends so much time working with machinery.

You work it correctly. The Hermetician clicks his approval.

"The transition will take an hour, so we must withdraw above decks and wait," he said. "You did well, princess. The lesson is concluded. You may ask any questions you want of me, and I shall do my best to answer." Something about the way he says that implies that this is a valuable treasure he is offering, and is almost hesitant in doing so.

[b]Dolce![/b]

"As you do, so shall I do," said Hera, accepting the bargain and wiping away all stress and fear from Vasilia's brow.

The Plousios is vast. All ships are. A shuttle may be able to make trips from orbit into space, or even within a system, with a stockpile of solid fuel but the power needed to sail the void at speeds fast enough to matter requires the infinite willpower of a true Engine. Unparalleled amidst all the sciences of humanity, Engines are shrunken and bound stars roaring out with enough energy to warm a world and with lifespans in the millions of years. It's a miracle that they're possible at all, and it's a miracle that they can be shrunken so much. But eventually miracles run out and the smallest possible size for an Engine is still enormous. 

And when you're already building something as enormous and complex as an Engine adding a ship the size of a small city to it is a rounding error in the budget.

You pass through gardens, Dolce - plants still steady, still gently dripping cherry blossoms despite the barnacles and coral encrusted on their trunks. You walk down a corridor surfaced with the pearls and dusting shells of clams, feeling the soft stones gently crumble beneath your hooves. You find a swiftly running river that courses through its square-cut and grassy canal banks, maintained despite the chaos by the arcane secrets of the ship. On the far bank is a structure, perhaps marble, perhaps plastic, with an open door that wildflowers in orange and pink spill from. Hop, hop, hop, across the stepping stones you go as you wander deeper and deeper.

[b]Alexa![/b]

The fire does not stop dreaming of apocalypse just because it is contained within the hearth. It burns and burns even though there is nowhere to go, burns and burns in the hope one spark might spread, burns and burns because it still has fuel and will not stop so long as it can. It burns and burns promising the death of cities and the end of empires but instead all it provides is warmth. It does not become tame, but in time it does burn low. You can feel tendons slowly relax and fierce muscles soften and for a moment you think the storm has passed and she is done.

And then she slips her tail inside your shirt and uses it to tickle your sides and [i]this is a mockery of the sacred sport of wrestling, Isty.[/i]

[b]Bella![/b]

You dream of lava. Heat, heat, heat. Melting, melting, melting. The boundaries between yourself and the surrounding world indistinct, the water of your body extending out like Beljani's virus and saturating everything around you while still being as sharply connected to your nerves as your missing whiskers. You are so hot that you have to spread as thin as butter across the bread of a bad girl just so you have enough nerves to feel every molten drip of it. You can feel a breath on your outermost layer and it feels like a blizzard. You can smell jasmine and it forces your brain up from the molten void of non-existence to experience it. You should be boiling but you can't, you should be scalded but you aren't, you're trapped at ninety-nine, suspended on the intersection of liquid, gas and solid.

When you finally wake you're ice cold.

Your sweat has soaked into the blankets so totally it's like lying on a leaky waterbed, and it has since faded from molten hot to ice cold. The light is dim but still conjures sparks. You're so dry that you've downed two of the glasses of water laid out by your bed before you've fully processed their presence - processed the plurality of them. Half a dozen cups of different shapes and sizes, pillaged indiscriminately and filled with water waiting for you. This isn't your bed either, it's not small, it's not hard... it's all softness and blankets and fluff.

And you're there. By the door, in the maid's place, waiting while your mistress sleeps - no. That's not you, that's Mynx, waiting with all the patience and discipline she learned from watching you tending to Redana's illnesses.