The [i]Plousios[/i] is on its way to the [i]Tunguska[/i] - home of the [b]Necromanteion[/b], the temple housing the Oracle of the Dead. 

[b]Epistia and Beljani![/b]

Two have become one and it's [i]wild[/i].

The greatest advantage of the Warriors of Ceron is their legendary pack instinct. It holds them in formation when all else is chaos, it lets them communicate wordlessly on an instinctive level, and above all it makes them [i]like[/i] each other. A Ceronian pack will walk through fire to collect the body of a fallen packmate and high five each other while their fur is still smouldering. Regardless of how the pampered assassin and the feral princess might have thought about this situation before, right now they are thick as thieves.

And as problematic as thieves. In this intoxicated newly-formed synchronization the suddenly inseparable pair have become an engine of anarchy. With the collapse of the Temple, Epistia has taken it upon herself to procure the luxuries that Beljani is accustomed to, and Beljani is doing her bit to get Epistia hooked on those same luxuries. Their revels are increasingly pursued by Dionysus, and with Beljani's ability to pull more people into her network, their party is rapidly careening out of control. An entire deck of the ship has joined the celebration and while a week of merrymaking is laudable after such a victory, we're nearing the end of the second and things only seem to be accelerating.

[b]Jil and the Lanterns![/b]

The ceremonies for the dead must be conducted. The halls of the Anemoi arise in chorus and drum, thunderously loud to be heard over the silence of the acoustics. The shrines of Artemis have been carefully transferred into temples on the ground and new cathedrals build in favour of Apollo, and so day follows night.

The ship is theirs now. They have banished the darkness and filled every corner with lanterns. In Apollo's name they pray and work and say their many thanks to their many fallen. As is the custom of the ship, once their earthly flesh is stripped away, their bones are taken and woven into the fabric of the ship. Unlike the Kaeri, these bones are not trophies. They are not to be made into thrones for their conquerors to sit in. Instead they are given dignity and purpose amidst their families, remade into weapons that might defend their daughters or cradles that might keep their sons safe. They are built into the macrocannons they spend their lives tending or the lanterns they spent their lives defending. A fearsome custom, but the Lanterns are a fearsome people.

Dignity and virtue, then, they have aplenty. What they do not have is leadership. All throughout the dark their leaders were temporary and improvised. No swifter target for a Kaeri blade than a charismatic authority figure. But a starship can only fly in one direction and the lack of unified authority has paralyzed the Lanterns in their victory. 

In the face of victory's entropy, Jil sits in one of the new temples of healing and wonders if the days when they were a united people were but a dream.

[b]Iskarot and the Order of Hermes![/b]

It had taken a long time for Iskarot to feel his age.

His tripod legs had held such speed and power. With them he had been able to clamber up walls without thinking, skitter across the exterior of a reactor, move across a starship exterior at a gallop. His body had contained an arsenal of deadly weapons, esoteric designs collected from a century of travel and service. He'd felt young and vital these past few months. He'd taken a gamble, betrayed the Empire, seized promotion, and survived void warfare.

And now he had to rely on fingers that wouldn't even cease their trembling in the time it took to light the blunt.

Exasperated, he pulls back his hood. The light absorbent baffles and polyweaves fall away for the first time in public for over thirty five years. Beneath is a servitor with the the features of an aging racoon. A common enough breed in the void: a Ruster, those genetically engineered spaceship technicians and salvage experts. The secrets of heavy industry were written on their bones and they would turn worlds into factories if someone would but feed them while they worked.

He takes a deep, shaky inhale of the smoke and blows it out, staring out at the distant industry of the reactor room. Neither the smoke nor the industrial activity calm him as they once did.

[b]Ramses and the Coherent![/b]

They're doing fine! Thanks for asking.

They're a highly unionized unit with strong death benefits, and their control of the field at the end of the battle - plus the capture of the Anemoi - filled their pockets to bursting. They could honestly have taken worse in the battle so they're pretty upbeat, despite their losses, and many of them are moving ahead with advanced or latestage body modifications they had resigned themselves to waiting years for. They are also working on a special project that will make them famous as well as rich - a new movie, [i]Prion Paula VS the Garden of Terror![/i]: A barely edited re-enactment of the recent battle.

Ramses has changed back to being a girl. Out of necessity this time. She is, after all, the actor who plays Prion Paula.

[b]Lacedo and the Alcedi![/b]

The Alcedi were never made for peace. The defeat of the Kaeri sat right with them. The skies are theirs again. But the price was awful.

Their losses were the worst of any side of the battle. Their grudge against the Kaeri sent them into the heart of the fray against the most terrible of the enemy's forces. Both flocks were consumed in the conflagration. The survivors are dazed and shattered remnants, barely one tribe where there had been four. Many simply desert this shadow of glory, leaving to join the Hermetics or wander away on their own paths. The Alcedi were not made for unity. They were made for pride, made for victory and nothing holds them together now their victory has been achieved.

Lacedo is one of increasingly few attendees to the tribal gathering, promoted to the status of Elder despite her youth because of the depths of the losses in the leadership. Even so, it seems like the entire history and heritage of the Fleets might blow away in the wind.

[b]The Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt![/b]

A triumph was held for the Lord of the Eater of Worlds. He was borne through the halls of the Plousios by a chariot of seahorses, while a treeshark carried a coral wreath above his head and whispered to him that he was not a god and all glory was fleeting. At the end of the procession gladiatorial games were held between the surviving battlecrabs. The victor of these games was awarded a villa immediately adjacent to the command deck and a staff of twenty Kaeri prisoners to attend and clean it. 

The Assistant Secretary then withdrew to the depths to plan his next campaign.

[b]Mynx![/b]

She was not amongst the slain. Where her body had fallen all that could be found was a single burning cigarette butt.