[i]“Thunderer, who crowns the mighty with glory and victory, hear us this day.”

Zeus’ temple was paved with none other than the shining hull of an Armada flagship, bestowed by the grace of  the Empress for the good of her allies in Baradissar. Every day, servants wrapped head to toe in cloths polished its surface to a mirror sheen. No one was permitted to step upon it without a rigorous foot-washing, and to be anything but barefoot was to hurl yourself into the servant’s pits. When you knelt, no cushion or carpet came between you and the bond that knit together an empire, [b]the[/b] Empire.

Vasilia touched her forehead to that cold metal floor, and at once nearly nodded off.

“Smile upon your servant, let all who stand in her presence know they stand before one who holds your favor.”

Focus, Vasilia, focus! Don’t falter now. Fill your mind with something - anything! - to keep from going still and stupid. Anassa. Anassa was visiting from Skollis. The first to make the journey in two generations. Guest of honor. Pay her your respects. Interests included raising goats, floral arrangements, and - rumor had it - local beverages of high renown and higher proof. Keep that last one in your pocket, wild card if you need it. Theonymphi and, and… (Sunlight Reflects Rivers Flowing North) Narcissa! Were no longer speaking. Direct them at each other for instant comedy and diversion.

“I offer to you an outpouring of finely aged spirits, and an outpouring every night until the moons are three once more, if you will grant her victory this day.”

You could not walk a block without seeing Markos’ face. His was the name on everyone’s lips and the face of their dreams to boot. He might fear loss, and turn to desperation if backed into a corner. He might think loss impossible, and any defeat a minor misstep from which he would soon recover. He might not think at all, and a greater gift he could not give her.

“And could you grant her a reprieve from Aphrodite’s charms, that she would stop trying to court her glaive? Honestly, she could do so much better.”

You! What! Clarisa!!!!!

The tigress in question (utterly unrepentant of the blasphemous lies she spouted in Zeus’ own temple!!!) finished her prayer smiling, and retrieved the beloved glaive from the shadow of Zeus’ altar. She threw it to her with an easy toss.

“Knock ‘em dead, Vas.”

Vasilia caught it with a single hand, and a grateful smile of her own.

“I’ll try not to; I still need an undersecretary.”

Half an hour to showtime. Time enough to drill the forms one last time. No matter what the riffraff thought of their love.[/i]

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

Bolin was their ticket in. At first, they did little more than hang about by his side, listening politely, making introductions where they could, and learning every name that passed back and forth. Sooner or later, there came the mutual topic. The knowing remark. The fellow appreciation. The timely joke. And they were no longer [i]just[/i] at Bolin’s side. 

One by one, Dolce marked off the priests they’d spoken with. One by one, they learned rank, they learned position, they learned respect. Symbols turned to information. Information turned to patterns. Patterns turned to currents. 

In the right hands, currents turned to waves.

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 3 + 2 = [b]11[/b]. How might Vasilia win the hearts of all (or most) present?]