“Is that the best you can imagine?” The words slip out all hot-headed, and Redana verbally backspaces, flushing as those smoked lenses focus on her, the matriarch absolutely stone-faced. “Your agedness, I mean no offense. I myself am not... I don’t have skill at these things, no matter how hard I try, other than understanding the mechanisms themselves. My mother crammed my wits so full of treatises and lessons that I can’t sort between them all. All the gods gave me in return was the power of imagination, and that I must use to its fullest.”

One sweep of her arm draws the eye across the entire hall. “For the survivors of a mythic war across the stars, you’ve done amazingly well for yourselves, don’t sell yourselves short! You’ve maintained your histories, you’ve passed down knowledge of how your ancestors crewed your ships, you’ve created a farming society? Or a sustainable hunting society? I... I don’t actually know how you feed yourselves. Which isn’t a veiled request for food, I’d be happy to accept but I’m only peckish and this isn’t about me, this is about all of you. This is about the freedom to dream dreams that are not bound up in this world alone, to fancy yourselves heroes and esteemed among the peoples of the stars— for how else will you ever achieve such?”

Her voice gains some strength as the sun shines down on her through a high, arched window, Apollo granting her oratory the merest touch of his power. “You are all survivors, born to row across the sea of stars! It’s your birthright, and it’s [i]beautiful,[/i] as beautiful as your home! And while I want you to have the opportunity to explore once more, to send your canoes to far-flung stars... I would not wish my enemy to have to sell their soul to see such wonders, let alone those who have done me no wrong at all! Please, give me the opportunity to bring an emissary of your people to the Golden Order and allow me to vouch for them and support their demands! My father, Zeus of the Scales, would turn her face away from me in shame if I did anything less for you and your people, honored grandmother.”

To punctuate her plea, Redana lowers herself to one knee, looking for all the world like a champion of the Saffron Host in her squire’s leathers. She bows her head in respect, and waits for acknowledgement— for agreement, censure, or a sign from the gods. If she had not been impetuous, here her hair would shine about her like a halo; instead, her bangs glitter like the shell of a beetle in the sunlight.

[Even with a damaged Grace, the blessing of Apollo has touched Redana’s words, and she [i]talks sense[/i] with a [b]7[/b].]