This, then, is Empire. The Armada around Tellus. The curious gravity of Lakkos. The Manor’s picket fence. A sheep could clear a fence with a running start and good form. But never could you leave. Her Highness had run from a goddess, sacrificed her entire future, and if you listened closely you would hear a whisper of titles trailing in her wake. Because that was what one did, for a Princess. And for a Captain, one would do quite a bit, to ensure their attention could rest fully on the matter of keeping a ship running. No matter how many quiet dinners you’d shared together; a Captain was still a Captain.

Then again. There’d already been one mutiny today…

“Jil. What am I about to do is completely unrehearsed, and could not possibly be a signal. No one will harm you or yours. Please don’t stab me.” No sudden movements. His hands rise to lift the ornate hat perched atop his head. Up it goes, clearing ears and wool easily. No difficulties, no accidents. Down it goes, to rest on his lap, turned to face him in all its glory.

And he takes a bite. Tears off the Captain’s insignia in one go.

(Broth. This belonged with a soup of some kind. Perhaps soaked in seasonings for days, weeks, to soften it up and add flavor, and then draped alongside some noodles, eggs, chopped vegetables, fish, make up the nutritional deficit…)

“No Captains.” He says, swallowing. “This is not an Imperial ship. This is [i]our[/i] ship. And whoever is going through the Rift ought to decide how it runs, together. And. If I’m not really a Captain, then you can’t be having a mutiny. At [i]best[/i] you can kidnap me, as a friend, for my own good. And I can tell you why you don’t have to, and you can decide if that’s good enough. So.” A bleat slips out, and it’s okay, because friends don’t ambush friends with assassins and gods. A sheep can bleat, and no one has to bleed for it. “So do you have a problem with [i]that?[/i]”