She. What. And her. And [i]her![/i] Zeus!!

“She most certainly does not! I do not! No one is checking out!” Vasilia [s]stamped her foot[/s] set herself in a strong and indomitable posture, completely overcoming the indignity of freshly-ruffled hair. Also. She raised a hand in greeting. “And no. We haven’t met. Hello.” Lovely to finally see you, Lady Hestia. Is it Lady? She didn’t strike her as Lady. But she might still be Lady. Gods, what [i]was[/i] her title? How in the stars could she forget...nevermind! Informal is fine! She’s fine!!

“I am staying right here, rather than entrusting the fate of this entire voyage to someone who only just recently experienced a third dimension in its entirety. Not a one of the Alced are anywhere near ready to command a starship yet.” Which you know to be true, you great thundering lummox, so come back here and just try to tell her she’s wrong, because you can’t, and she’s nowhere remotely close to finished with you, Zeus! [i]Zeus![/i]

...Zeus?

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

Centuries ago, mankind strove to answer the question: What made the ideal servant?

Of the thousand thousand invocations of the answer, few remain coherent today, and only one could be heard within the Plousious’ kitchen: Docile. Agreeable. Lacking in natural defenses and combat capabilities. Pleasing to the eye, pleasing to the soul.  But the true masterstroke was this; that whether useful or useless, the ideal servant provides for their master simply by their continued existence.

The inspiring creatures of the distant past knew this secret already, the ability to transmute life into profit, albeit in a much more intensive and tedious fashion. Shearing, cleaning, carding, spinning, weaving, and more! Every step requiring complicated machinery. Complicated machinery requiring trained help. Wouldn’t it be so much faster if the wool were a finished product from the beginning? Soft, warm, luxurious, ready to become product in a matter of minutes?

So the sheep of the Manor earned their keep, and the Family wanted for nothing, having a nigh-infinite supply of the galaxy’s softest wool to trade for anything they did not bother to fabricate themselves. It is said that the tributes - when they remembered to send them - were primarily composed of bolts upon bolts of the precious material. Cared for properly, in the right hands, some of that wool may have survived to this day, in the blankets and pillows of the Tellus elite.

[b]Redana![/b]

You are alone, surrounded by ghosts, gods, and guilt, when a touch of home brushes the back of your hand. Far away, a desperate cook does the only thing left he can think to do, and bonks his wooly head against you. Isn’t it soft? Isn’t it warm? Would you like to run your fingers through the curls? Would that ease your mind? Please, Princess. Please, Hera. At least let his presence be of use. Let him be of [i]some[/i] help. Please.

But in the dark, across the distance between heart and body, do you expect the touch of a cook?

Or an actress?