There's more to unpack in these responses than can be managed in a single night. Such a fascinating mind. Such an interesting creature. Such an unusual culture. 

Call and response, the ritual dance of society. Greetings, farewells, and various social and politeness markers were a commonality among every known spacefaring species (and as an aside, it was far preferable to classify lifeforms by their ability and/or willingness to travel the stars, much more so than labeling them as "advanced" or not. Depending how you tilted your head, you might wind up lifting up one species but find another was sinking beneath the horizon in response. Language, culture, self awareness, dreams... these never turned out to be unique. Even the nomenclature 'multiplanet species' fell short of useful. But intentionally crossing and linking the gateways? That was useful distinction), but Valentina clearly had them drilled into her at a level that would be unthinkable living on a Hybrasil research station. Even mainland religious ceremonies tended to fall short of this level of calcification. 

She knows it's unasked for. Discouraged, in fact. Mirror has been putting down hints with increasing levels of aggression all night, and Valentina has responded by imbibing larger amounts of liquor and displaying needy, openly vulnerable body language. But even at these levels of inebriation and desperation, all attempts at small talk are filtered through the ritual process. What sort of significance must it have inside the Consortium? It's almost as if TCers weren't capable of reading the extra languages of Posture, Pheromones, and Terrain Control. Poor things. Quite the difficulty to overcome on a societal level. No wonder Valentina was so locked into her stock responses that she could be visibly seen thinking across them despite three glasses of quite boozy bubbly and an impending trip to the bar. 

And then the content of her answers! Proximity to the center, the tens of billions, each milling about in their 'how do you do's and 'oh, but you wouldn't be interested in's as they march step by step down their infinite steel pathways shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, wearing their restrictive and stuffy clothing. Individuality, expressed through conformity. Social creatures in the extreme, with only limited ability to communicate. Total chaos. Such beautiful, fascinating chaos. It was no wonder so many clever ideas originated from their space. 

And yet, how sad. How typically... human. To be firsts to a new frontier and only see the way it differs from their point of origin. To speak in terms of the dimness of the light and the hue; specifically how these things made it somehow unpleasant to be there. How much of the talk was about resources? What could be taken from this planet, what was its manufacture? She never said a word about fish that swam in its waters, the birds that glided on the breeze. If these things thrived or ate metals to survive or who could say what else? No mention of the flowers, and which were for warding and which were for eating and which were for display. Only metallurgy. What it meant to the economy, to the push and pull of that grand societal tide, the products it created. Beautiful pride, nevertheless discarded after only a single setback to a superior opponent. 

Tilt head upward, allow eyes to half-shut. Show trust, allow closeness. Skin contact at the head, hold. Touch her back. Long strokes, adjust pressure. She makes the first move. Take the second. Hand on hip, squeeze. Hand on elbow, guide. She'll think she's leading. Ideal. She'll think you're reciprocating. Correct. 

Take her hand behind your head, push her fingers into hair. Part lips, wait. Breathe. Two intervals. One. Lean in, connect. Ah, a spark. Hold close, hold steady. Do not tense. Do not flinch. Tail about her waist, hold her here until the flavor of her lips becomes sense memory. 

Her lips are soft. Her breasts are soft. Her body is warm. Mirror kisses with the chaste softness of a maiden surrendering to a conquering knight for the first time in her life, even as her body nudges and manipulates her date's to push her where she wants, to be held the way she wants, to feel contact the way she wants. And what she wants is not chaste at all. What she wants is a tangle of legs, want she wants is a repeat of the end of their duel in the arena. She wants to feel it this time. What she wants is to ruin that pretty dress, to expose what's underneath so she can prove her fingers and her tongue and her technique and her entire body are talented enough to conquer Valentina de Alcard completely. This is the meaning of [Whispered Promise[. To make craft of this woman to send home to Hybrasil Prime. They'll make weapons out of her sighs. They'll make armor out of her screams. They'll weave art from the way. She'll.

Ah. But up there. What fascinating designs. Sublime use of neural mesh, so clever and creative to hire someone to go out and experience the universe like this. So thorough to canvas such a wide swatch of the known galaxy. These are dresses that will mean something slightly different on every body that wears them, both to the wearer and to the observer. The shape of each body changes the meaning of the landscapes, changes towering mountains to subtle hills, makes the forest rigid and foreboding or the prairie into the most inviting sun-dappled napping place. This could be home. This could be a horizon you'll never cross yourself. This could be nostalgia so strong it hurts, or the infinite promise of a tomorrow that's just around the corner. 

Impressive. Truly. But so very wrapped up in the same chains that bound Valentina's tongue even more thoroughly than Mirror's could. This... couture was a series of masterpieces, but its supposed theme was the expanding of boundaries and possibilities. How were they supposed to manage that with their own growth so deeply stifled? Mayze's newest lesson was necessary after all. A knot in Mirror's back unclenches, and it has nothing to do with the curious fingers currently kneading it. She'd written the correct speech after all. 

Mirror pulls apart from Valentina at long last, still on the precipice between the conqueror and the prize so very richly one. Her breathing is deep, hot, and as excited as she can push herself to show. She arches her back to push her chest out for display, and at the same time takes Valentina's hands in both of hers to guide them down to where she cannot be touched. Not here, and not yet. 

"Is this what you hoped for? she asks, without clarifying what she means.

[rolling Entice, which is an [b]8[/b]]