[b]Skotos![/b]

In this moment you have been taken to a bakery.

The Azura by the front observes you with the lazy danger of a predator that weighs its sunbeam as a greater pleasure than your flesh might provide. She wears the bonelike armour of the Path, surrounded by a wealth of roasted grains, enough to feed the city that casts this city as its shadow. In the hound drags you, in amidst the low heat of ovens whose fires have burned low.

You are in a kitchen, Skotos.

You have tried baking cookies before; it is an ancient memory that comes to you now. They burned then. Every time.

Will they still burn now, I wonder?

[b]Alexa![/b]

"Your wish is only for yourself," said Hades, hands dripping with avian blood. With a flick his kerchief comes out and his bloody hands are wiped. "For happiness. That is not enough."

His hand comes up, sharp. He cuts you off, and the Azura thugs and Athena with the same gesture. All three slink into the background. The God of the Dead is possessing the Azura philosopher, eyes inorganic blue - and the moment his hands are clean they plunge straight back into the body of the next bird.

"It is [i]pointless[/i] to judge your wishes," said Hades. "You cannot intellectualize or rationalize them. You cannot reason yourselves into them or out of them. Philosophers have tried, but," he holds up a sticky handful of bird entrails, "they have failed."

Again that kerchief comes out, and with steady fingers and a sharp knife he begins to peel the flesh off the bird. Bit by bit, tossed away, inhumanly precise as he reveals the bone underneath.

"In some cases it would not matter. Your misery would not matter. I would be content to let you suffer for as long as you insisted on tormenting yourself in this way. It would be a fair punishment. But in this case it [i]does[/i] matter, matter more than anything, because of that bastard Aphrodite."

He looks up at the sky. At the Rift. You can see it from here. A slicing knife blade across the cosmos, from horizon to horizon, endless and sparkling in red and pink and gold like the stars it bisects.

"None have crossed the Rift. In two hundred and fifty years of attempts, thirty three times the Plousios has survived Demeter's Assassins for long enough to reach it. And those are only the attempts I have sanctioned; the number raises terrifyingly if one accounts for the Azura, the Hermetics, the lost and adventuring souls who have sought to brave those awful rivers. These failures were not for lack of strength. Not for lack of skill."

He spreads his hands across the perfect bird skeleton, bloodless and picked clean of any hint of flesh.

"It was because a soul's wishes are as its bones. And if your bones are hollow enough to fly then they shall shatter within the pressures of the deeps. Even if you had all the strength you might wish you could wish for, you are [i]ruined[/i] for my purposes. As are all the others. Ruined. Pointless. [i]Cursed[/i]. Hermes has betrayed me yet again. If you brave the Rift you shall die."

The flesh and blood sizzles away on the brazier around that gleaming skeleton, and in that thick and choking smoke Hades starts to fade, face twisted with bitterness. "If you want to help," he said from the haze of scorched flesh. "pray for your replacement."

[b]Vasilia and Dolce![/b]

The cinnamon is H'san. He dreamed of music. He shook the spices because he liked the rhythm of the motion, not because he minded their flavour. He was a fool. He is yours. Carry him gently.

The coriander is Jalia. She was a researcher, a Triarch, a gene weaver in training who worked in the kitchens that she might learn the skills to impress a future wife. She is yours. Carry her gently.

The drawer of unopened white plates is Fangst. They were a criminal, an outcast in hiding, planning vengeance on the palace while gaining their trust as a chef. They never had the courage for it. They are yours. Carry them gently.

There are these. There are more. This is a place of loss, and in Apollo's light it seems like it is not so different from anywhere else. Each world aches with the loss of humanity. Each star aches with the loss of the shadows of orbiting fleets. Each heart in this dark and shadowed galaxy weeps with the same loss that the Magos Birmingham forged into a sword. Yours are no different. But you take on the Housekeeper's loss, name by name, burden by burden, and it does not crush you. All the weight of her agony and grief... it does not cripple you in the same way it cripples her. 

And with the gentle click of silver, the Housekeeper at last looks down upon her finished masterpiece. Fried halloumi, drizzled with honey and scattered with peanuts. The perfect saganaki. If it is not Ambrosia it is as close as mortal hands might ever manage. 

"Oh," said the Housekeeper, in a quiet kind of surprise. "I did it."

And she smiles. She bows to you. She bows to Apollo. She undoes her strange armour, letting it clatter to the ground all about her like shedding skin. And reborn in sun-kissed blue, she shucks the title of Housekeeper and leaves it behind. It is yours now, if you wish it. This kitchen is yours now.

(Ah, but what of the consequences of that partial success? The price you must pay is a simple one - Apollo has picked up that divine dish before you could, and has taken a delighted bite. He crying with silent laughter at the joy of it. Perhaps for the best, though. Problems tend to occur when mortals eat the food of the gods.)

[b]XIII![/b]

Could not the Empire be run like this?

Of course, it could not. The Ikarani are architects of death and disaster. Are [i]vessels[/i] of death and disaster. Only permitted to soar this high because their inevitable collapse is part of their terms and conditions. They are the hubris that kills civilizations hidden behind a Beautiful face. Of course the Empire cannot be run like this.

But oh, is it not glorious to live within it for a little while.

Perhaps the idea of Imperial administration as analogous to the half-Kaeri girl's processes is flawed, though. This doesn't feel like taking orders. It feels more like horseback riding - either as the rider or the horse. You race with borrowed strength and speed, but still have space to flourish. You are empowered to be your best. [i]Partnership[/i] like you've never felt it. Each mission is assigned to you specifically because of your talents, and resources are issued precisely to cover any weaknesses or limitations that might frustrate you or slow you down. Everything is where its supposed to be. Reinforcements, aid, escape vectors, all appear perfectly on cue. It feels like you are for once [i]understood[/i]. You are asked to push yourself, to give your all at times, but not once does Beautiful ask you to do the impossible. She doesn't even ask you to do the inefficient or boring parts. She takes into account the time you need to rest, your mind's hunger for variety, even your desire for positive feedback. Despite working harder and more effectively than you ever have in your life, somehow the Ikarani Adept makes this feel like a vacation.

And on this vacation you are stealing a lot of money.

The shape of the plan is illegible, but the specifics aren't. You are moving money around. You break into vaults, museums, military facilities and ancient factories. Spectacular wealth flows through your claws like water. But, strangely, Beautiful doesn't seem to be building up a hoard. Some missions have you smuggling treasures [i]into[/i] certain vaults, having you leave empty-handed. At one point you need to keep an Azura sentinel distracted for long enough for some Lanterns to hastily load crates full of the Azura coins onto someone else's spaceship without them noticing. 

What do these forced interventions in the economy of the Endless Azure Skies add up to? You don't have time to ask, and from Beautiful's hazy look she doesn't have the time to answer. And she might not have much time, period.

The plan runs for five days. Just long enough for you to start to worry. An Ikarani can't maintain this level of mental output for long, can't hold this much raw data inside their head, even with the oversight of the Master. By the stroke of midnight tonight Beautiful needs to have her mind wiped to prevent her from going Rampant. You've got the poison in your pocket. It's an ominous and flowing thing that calls to mind the Lethe, the River of Hades that washes away the memories of the dead.

But one last mission. One last mission before the dose, after which point Beautiful hopes her plan will be able to conclude itself. And for this one she needs you looking your best. You'll be attending a fancy ball with the Azura Satrap. It's an afternoon of pampering and luxury, but that too is part of the plan - this doubles as your mandatory rest break.

Tell us of your metamorphosis.