Madness, Madness, Madness. Stop! Don't touch her! There's no time for this! They're in battle, with no quiet waiting room, no platter of chips, no time for recovery! No, faster! Pick her off her feet, rush her forwards, muss her clothes, just so long as she's in that sarcophagus faster! She can't afford not to be at her best! Knock her out! Don't let her feel this! Think of the pain she was spared before, how much it will hurt! Don't you [i]dare[/i] give her [i]any[/i] sedative! She'll never forgive herself if she forgets a single moment of this. Shatter her skull if you have to, but she wants to capture every moment, remember this forever! She hears the prayers, the chants, as if she were miles underwater and they on the surface. It's just her, a reassuring touch from Ramses, and the smell of cigars. That beautiful bastard. He even managed to find a gold that matches her new filigree. The Hermetic pronounces the final syllable, attendants raise the arms to her and-- *** Madness, Madness, Madness. They're nothing like her old ones. Athena had four arms, and therefore the Pallas Rex had four arms. Athena uses her arms to wage war, and therefore the Pallas Rex would use hers to wage war. A reduced version, one that can be held on a leash, conjured and bound. These are not the arms of a warrior, with hands to circle and weave, clench Aegis and spear, be the unbreakable wall upon which enemies break and the point of the invincible spear. These are not the arms of a princess, of a symbol, of one who must be seen always and never heard, pristine and perfect. Alexa raises one arm, admires the way the light scatters through the sapphires embedded in the knuckles, reads the prayers and dedications engraved around the biceps. They're works of art, treasures to match or exceed the most precious crown of the greatest emperor. But above and exceeding all of that, they're hers. No, not just hers--[i]her.[/i] These are the arms of a girl who would spend time with friends. Who does not need to fear. Of a girl who would get dirt under her fingernails. Would discover, would explore. Would laugh, and love, and live, all without fear of loss. Imperfect. Beautiful. Her. *** Madness, Madness, Madness. The greatest crime imaginable is that there is not enough time for her to hug everyone who deserves it. Still, she passes herself from one coherent and attendant to the next like an overly enthusiastic python, squeezing and hugging with all the strength in her new arms, saving an extra special squeeze for Rams-- A horribly short, gutteral scream. She turns, sees the crimson comet crater against the dust, and she's running. But something's wrong. Her legs won't work right--is it the arms? Is their weight throwing off her balance? She can see her goal, is staring at it like staring will make the body at its center less mangled, but her legs insist on carving the sand, bringing her sideways, make her look at-- She tried, you know. Tried to ignore him. Had been steadfastly looking away from the start of the battle from the looming form at the top of the pyramid. But of course, he'd been lost, kidnapped. Of course she must return to his side. Her feet don't stop pounding, but faces flare in her mind. A desperate laugh burbles somewhere in her throat, and her feet dig deeper into the dust, carve longer strides, until she's at the base of the pyramid, staring upwards at the man who stole her life from her. "Father Molech! As you commanded, I have led the Alcedi, and returned to your side when you were lost!" Is there something there, Molech, or Liu Ban, or however you want to call yourself, that gives you pause? An edge to the voice, a hint that something is wrong, as your daughter starts to march up the steps of the pyramid? God, she hopes so. "I do hope you are pleased with my service, Father Molech! You look to be in far better health than when last I saw you!"