The first meal together after a battle is always somber. Too many seats that should have faces in them, but don't. And when it's a meal together with the people that, a few hours ago, were the reasons for some of those missing faces? The interim leader of the Lanterns, Jaquelyn, has been a good host. Her Lanterns have shared their food, offered shelter. And now they cluster as far away from the troops of the [i]Plousios[/i] as the imperial mess will allow them. The Alcedi cluster together with her, the Tides click and snikt amongst themselves, and only a rare few Coherents break ranks to wander amidst the tables. And here she is, surrounded by Alcedi and completely alone. She wonders, if she were to pluck the air, whether it would [i]twang.[/i] They won't talk to her, is the thing. She's the hero of the day--the one who destroyed herself to save the ship and all of their lives. They can't talk to [i]her,[/i] are you crazy? Mere mortals, with her? What could they even have to talk about? Already, she can see the new myths forming. Remembers the stories the people of Molech whispered about her, when they thought she couldn't hear. Remembers the silence, spreading like blood whenever she drew near a no longer chatty bunch of soldiers. And you know, what? Turns out, having people not talk to you because they admire you is worse than them not talking to you because they're afraid of you. Blow that, she's stopping this before it starts. Conversation dies in the mess as she approaches a table, knees a chair out for herself, selects a victim, and blurts out, "By any chance, do you have a mother, or maybe a grandmother, named Ma'hti?" *** The Alcedi have been relentless, but this might be her toughest challenge yet. She studies the warrior across the table--notes the definition of the muscles. The body of a sprinter. The beads woven in her feathers--awards for speed, precision. The familiar hooked beak. The fiery eyes. The plume, no doubt a crimson ribbon at speed. Alexa nods, her decision made. "Hoji! You were born of Hoji, the famous messenger, I'm sure of it!" And more join to see the reason for the whoops. *** "Oh, the stories I could tell you! You've never met a brigand faster at raiding or with a better eye for where the good stuff was than your great-uncle! I don't have the recipe written down--not here, anyway--but now that I have a tongue… Jaq, I hate to impose, but could I trouble you to show me where the cleaning supplies are kept?" And a few more people are drawn in. Alcedi run off with Lanterns to fetch supplies. Coherents and Tides are dispatched to find something distillable. Nothing fancy, no barrels, nothing like the wine on Tellus or Barassidar, nothing you'd find sold in a shop. Only soldier's drinks, something that can ferment in your pack, something quick and easily concealed. Private Polly's Paint Stripper is a rousing success. So is Colonel Shad's No. Nine, and Ma'hti's Bushwhacker. They even find some apples for the scumble. *** There's a certain unique silence that happens when a hundred intently listening ears suction all sound out of a room at once. Poor sap. She'd known the question was going to come up eventually--had been placing mental bets on whether it'd be Alcedi, Hermetic, or Lantern to pop the tension over the group. But as the young warrior fidgets, and does her best not to look around at the silently expanding ring of people clearing the blast zone around herself, Alexa can't help but feel a little sorry. You could hear a pin drop, and easily imagine a boot right behind it. She sighs, and offers a wry smile. Set them at ease. Nobody's in trouble, we're all friends. You should never be afraid to ask a good question. "Yes, Arth'na. I was the Pallas Rex." It feels strange to be able to say that without wincing. To say it without a disclaimer, a layer of separation, a defined line between herself and the Pallas. For so long, she's done her best to distance herself from it. That was a different time. She was a different person. The person who carried out all those orders, hurt all those people, was dead, would never return. But the thing about being dead is the dead don't learn. "And that is exactly why I must convince you not to follow Father Molech. "He would have you believe that he brought order, and peace. I say nay! Under his orders, I brought [i]terror[/i] to the galaxy. I was his enforcer, his right hand, his pawn. I obeyed every order, killed at a word, slaughtered hundreds in battles. When a message needed to be delivered at the tip of a spear, I was the one holding the shaft. "And do you know what I found when I was done? "No honor. No glory. Only a pile of bodies and Emperor Molech, unhappy that the pile was not large enough." "And lest I am not clear: the bodies were our own. Ridenki, turned to ash. Barassidar, a graveyard of the abandoned and destroyed. Emperor Molech ruled through fear, first and last. The Pallas was his sword, waiting always to decimate the weak, the failures. "Do not, my friends, make my mistake! There is no future for anyone following Emperor Molech but that of an expendable corpse! Father Molech created us, yes--created us to serve, created us to die, to be used up in his plans! He will not care for you, will not reward you, will not know your name! "And even if he did… Even if he did, you should not follow him. We will never be more to him than what he made us. "Friends… there's so much more. [i]You[/i] can be so much more. The life you make for yourself will always mean more to you than the life somebody else picks. "I will not stand in your way. But please... make a better decision than I could. Learn what, for so long, I did not."