Amidst the crashing storm, the Praetor takes the prow. 

This is a vessel carrying knights and princesses. This is a vessel carrying magi, ancient and new. This is a vessel carrying sisters and lovers. This is a vessel carrying the soft and the kind. This is a vessel carrying a community that dares the storm together, dares the horizon together, dares the dragon together. But only one hand can hold the spear.

Leviathan turns. Despite the distance of the horizon it sees. Despite the crash of the Fall it hears. Despite the immensity in scale it cares. The beast turns with all the thrill of Love, with all the crushing enormity of desire. Though it be a nation and you but a ship, though its beak is still hot and wet with the molten yolk of a fractured planet, though it is everything and you are nothing, to the Eater of Worlds this is everything. Muscles the size of continents pull. Bones the size of mountains stretch. An skull that could hold up the dome of the sky turns as thoughts the shape of stormclouds tear through an unimaginable brain. 

But for all its scale those stormcloud thoughts are simple. Ancient. Directed by the man in the battered tuxedo who stands at the barrier of life and death and says that this, too, must be a thing of desire. Let this, too, be cursed. Let Aphrodite, phallus of Kronus, work his revenge on the death that dared to take him. Let all men, all women, fear Hades. Let all hate him. May the final dream of every king be immortality. 

Sleep is the brother of death; Lethe is the river of dreams. And here swims the dream of Immortality, the Eater of Worlds, the monster who inspired the pyramids.

But even as it roars away the stars, the Praetor hefts the spear. 

She carries herself like she is tall. Surrounded by those taller than her, as she is, it makes her seem defiant. In the face of impossibility that is a champion's skill. She dresses herself like she is dead. Her garb is funerary and timeless. Black lace and black leather and her face painted with the impression of a skull. She carries herself like a warrior. In the end, who else to call upon? Who else could make war on this hateful dream?

"My name," said the Praetor, "is Jil. I am of the Lanterns. I was born into darkness. Raised amidst death. I have worn the bones of my ancestors. I have carried the axe in the night. I have made war beneath the desert sun. I and all my kind are the grandchildren of this Imperial dream of immortality."

She raised a finger and pointed.

"And I am what it fears."

All the gods were silent to witness this, a mouse standing unafraid before a dragon.

"Sail me closer," called Jil to her storm-wracked crew. An octopus creature slithered up alongside her, meek and wretched beneath her feet - but though it quavered, it breathed steadily. "Sail me closer! From hell's heart! Help me give up my spear!"

*

[b]Dyssia![/b]

"I apologize," said Tidal Specialist, now sounding increasingly like she was reciting from training. "The hypno-indoctrination technology that allowed the inserting of parental memories, while proven to be effective at improving relatability scores, was lost with the downfall of the Atlas Cultural Sphere. The Academy apologizes for any discomfort you may be experiencing from heightened awareness that you are speaking to an artificial life form. While feelings of empathy and outrage are natural, the Academy would like to remind you that you are a natural life form and this biomancer is not, and its desires are aligned with its role."

Normal servitors didn't talk like this. There was that [i]awareness [/i]that they were built and wired fundamentally different, sure, but they wouldn't go into disclaimers no matter how you pushed them. It wasn't often that one talked to a biomancer directly - and if this was what it was like, it was clear why it was considered a path of mastery all on its own.

"Note that if you would like to upgrade this individual to the status of friend, due to a high degree of specialization, the biomantic work required will take four to six weeks in laboratory conditions," went on Tidal Specialist, voice having lost all of the colour that made her a Pix. "A clone can be procured on a shorter timeframe if that would be preferable."