[b]Redana and Bella![/b]

Dionysus holds the door open for you, and in his reflective mask you can see the howls of wolves.

The party is in deep swing and more and more of the ship has been drawn in. The air is thick and heavy with the viral bliss of Beljani; the will of an Oratus Adept reaching into the altered biology of servitor species and altering it further. Joy, withheld and rationed by biological sculpting, flows like wine. Smiles reserved for conquering heroes adorn countless faces. The drug of her presence is the confidence to ask that cute girl out, the strength to forget your own self criticism, the burning flavour of somehow knowing that when you speak your audience will see your heart. There's a certain safety in getting drawn into this hivemind, a clarity of trust and purpose, and for the lost and damned of the Plousios it is intoxicating.

A great many Alcedi are here, as are paroled Kaeri. A great many Lanterns keen to escape the dark corridors of the Anemoi are here alongside Coherent who know a good time when they see one. Here, on this melting pot, at the feet of the two Warriors of Ceron, the divergent factions of these great ships at last find common ground.

And oh, does Beljani look like a Warrior of Ceron now. This seems like a vast, debauched party, something that should be a corrupting influence, but compared to the prison of pampering she was caught in until now? This is the hardest she has ever worked in her life. She has been dancing, fighting and cheering. She has been told no and taken it for an answer. She's lost weight and gained muscle, eaten common food and drunk garbage moonshine and she's [i]haaaaaaaayted [/i]every second of it but it's okay because she's alive and part of something and the feedback loop she gets from interacting with Epistia her pack mate is unlike anything she's ever felt before. The two are flowing into each other like water and sugar.

Epistia, too, is happier than you've ever seen her. She was the only child in the Eater of Worlds, the only one her age, forever caught outside the kinship bonds so vital to the Warriors of Ceron. Craving for battle seemed like her only joy because she lacked the invisible bond of romance/understanding/trust hardwired into the depths of Ceronian biology. Her scythe has been set aside, war and death forgotten in a corner of this great room, and when she howls it is with unbloodied fangs.

But neither of them are the stars of this show. That would be Beljani's crystal dragon pet, sitting proud and aloft in the centre of the room. Every scale is a complex, glowing masterwork of engraved glass and its wings are made of holographic energy. When it breaths a brilliant and scattering array of prismatic laser lights ignite the entire room like a disco rave to the cheers of the crowd, and when it spreads its wings it creates vast flowing scrolls of calligraphic glyphs - words, mathematical formulae, hieroglyphic images. It's a spectacular series of effects, bringing to mind the mythical and archaic technology of digital computing. 

Nothing like this has been seen in the galaxy since the destruction of the Atlas Cultural Sphere. It is worth at least a little awe.

[b]Alexa![/b]

It is warm, briefly. Iskarot has hosed you down with a flamethrower. It doesn't hurt you but washes the moss and vines clear. All around the Order of Hermes is moving in readied formations armed with similar weapons, scorching the ship clean wherever they can find it.

He stares at you for a long moment from beneath his robe, fingers tapping along the edge of his device, and then grumble-sighs and finally speaks. "When we first met," he said. "I attempted to use you in order to further my career in the Order of Hermes. I was... thoughtless. Angry. I had been stuck on Tellus for a long time in service to an idiot and I did not consider the value of you as a thinking entity. And so I wanted to," he glanced aside. "Apologize. So. I am sorry. I have tried not to repeat that mistake."

[b]Dolce![/b]

Jil stares for a long moment. Then, with a swift and deliberate speed, kicks a foot around the corner of the chair, drawing it out so that she can sit on it sideways. She pauses after chewing for a moment and then looks at you sharply. "I thought you were a chef," she said. "And [i]this [/i]is the best you got?"

She swallowed uncomfortably and looked at the plate with the indecision of someone raised not to waste food working up the willpower to finish something she did not want to.