[b]Redana![/b]

Step by step, ingredient by ingredient, you claw your way up the rungs of reality. You were a shadow, but a dog made you a ghost. You were a ghost and a goddess makes you a slave.

There is no comment from Hera at first as she walks by, imperious, ringed fingers picking a single cookie and tasting it with the absence of a ruler too mighty to be ruled, even by desire. This is not a gift shared between friends as it might be if you cooked for Hestia; but neither this is nothing made by no one. This is something. Made by some one. And that, somehow, is what's required to get Hera's attention after a lifetime of failing.

Get her attention... no, that is not how the Gods work. Aphrodite does not come to those who do not love. Athena will not find you as you dance. Hera does not speak to those who stand in the light. Bella could always speak to her.

"You could stay here, if you liked," she said. Her voice is not cruel. "No one would find you."

[b]Alexa![/b]

"Love," hissed Hades, "is the most selfish wish of all."

And with a flare of smoke the world rushes back in, taking the form of an Azura bruiser lunging in with brass knuckles to the face. His colleague slashes behind, seven-section staff lashing out in a clattering whip to strike you as the walls come down.

You are back in the realm of Athena and Ares, the War Goddess directing your demise with pointed fingers. But there's an angle here that you're not familiar with; some strange and dark energy running below the surface. It does not empower them, but they move in tune with its hidden dictates in a way you can't quite anticipate...

[b]Vasilia and Dolce![/b]

It is as you cook that Thelis Thist finds you.

You weren't expecting that - expecting her, to come in here, to the kitchens. You weren't expecting her to be wearing an oily smile and dip her serpent tongue directly into a pot of broth experimentally. From her conduct before the Satrap you imagined her some sort of deeply aggrieved figure, someone intense, someone basically sincere even if strangely limited. None of that now. Now she leaves a trail of credibility behind her like a snail leaves a trail of slime.

"You went and Ascended the housekeeper!" she said, both hands filled with pastries and her mouth with a strange cigar. "You know that means this entire palace will have to be closed, the building abandoned, the court relocated? We're going to have to move the whole operation to Svant! You have just caused [i]spectacular[/i] political chaos and personally inconvenienced the majority of the most powerful members of society. Shocking behaviour. You might need an advocate in court to defend you from the shitstorm that's about to rain down upon you. Here's my card!"

It is unclear if this is normal for the Azura, or if defending the people you are also prosecuting is a Thelis Thist thing.

[b]XIII![/b]

You can feel Beljani's muscles against your own. She is on your arm - you have no doubt, from her dress, that she hoped it might be the opposite. Her fashion design was more than the results of her own hobbyist weaving; like yours, she had some tweaks made by Beautiful to bring out the best in her. Her arms are wrapped with ribbon-bands, vibrant green, even down to her fingertips. It is a dress that is a cage, but it is a cage to whose bars she clings. You can feel her muscles so tense beneath your fingers, even though she would sooner eat that dress than show her discomfort on her face. She's afraid too.

You can smell it on her - the Virus, unveiled from the jasmine perfume that kept it hidden. She [i]is[/i] the Virus; it swirls around her invisibly except for the razor scent at the edge of your nose, the Auspex's interpretation of that extreme and invasive danger. You've seen how it works at this point, and it's not the frictionless mind control novels thought it might be. The Virus does not dictate - it opens. It gently presses on the brain just enough to make people receptive, to make them inclined to listen, to dull the edge of skepticism, to fill their senses with the pleasant chemicals of love. It's barely an infection at all, so mild and benign that it does not trigger an immune response.

And that's where her true work begins. Then her voice starts, her oratory - a powerful weapon even in ancient days, honed in her to the finest blade. Paired with her gift she can step inside anyone's guard and convince them as a sister might. This is her subtle work and hidden blade. You haven't yet seen her swing it as a club.

She's at her best. Wielded to perfection, just like you. Contentedly buzzed, strong and free and reveling in getting to use the power she is made for. She does not outshine you, not quite, but that was Beautiful's decision and she has no choice but to trust in it. Like you, she should be prepared for this.

But her hands are tensed all the same. The shadows of the Master and her own Rampancy hang in the air. She's aware that she has more to give. She's aware she might be asked to give it all.

"I hardly know what to say any more," she said, voice looking for a haughty sniff that wasn't quite there. "Speaking to someone who can figure everything out at a glance leaves one... she didn't tell you what the plan here was, perchance? Or what the plan was at all? All I know is I've been asked to give a number of rather dubious economic theories makeovers for the modern day, and I can't draw the connection between that and mass death."