[i]Defeat is deepshade brown like trampled mud rubbed against the nose, damp like the post-exertion burst of muscleswell between hairs, salt like a tongue pushed between the teeth victoriously. Every breath is Defeatbrown whistling through her nose, ear-lowering, a better blindfold than the blindfold.[/i]

The rope (black, red accents) barely squeaks as Waverunner hauls it against some sort of beam, until her sandals leave the ground, toes curling as she looks for some sort of footing. [i]Give up, Defeat says. Energy wasted in exertion. Defeat tells you when to reserve your strength, black snakes coiling in your arms.[/i] Someone— Plundering?— pushes her backwards, one-handed, against her tensed abs, sets her swinging. Her mittens bat uselessly at the rope, trying to get leverage.

"You have time-sensitive information about an upcoming Azura interdiction," Plundering Fang says (from behind her?). "At dusk, they intend to hit Tributary Team Chaksha in a reprisal run. However, like [i]always[/i], you were caught while trying to exfiltrate." Plundering Fang cups her rump and squeezes, then pushes her into a harder swing. Her hips twist despite Defeat, feet trying to seek out an outcropping or a root to stabilize against. "After your captors realized you were no threat, just a pathetic, adorable puppy in over her head, they left you here... [i]after[/i] stripping you and carrying off your equipment." Below, Waverunner ties the rope off; likely a Whistler's Knot.

"Inform Gemini about the interdiction before the sun touches the sea." [i]She should be smelling Demand: hot, forceful, penetrating, tension in the shoulders, red like pepper on white meat. It's just really difficult with her face muzzled so thickly in Defeat.[/i] "When you fail... we'll discuss your next training regimen at Divers' Dock, Little Ember." Someone— Jester?— scoops up her Silvers: [i]squamata[/i] and [i]tunica[/i], silk [i]braccae[/i], her hard-won [i]vēlum[/i], and the [i]intima[/i] they peeled off her (and seem content to steal, this time). But not her [i]focale[/i].

No, that's what they soaked in Defeat and tied over her gag, knotted and padlocked in place.

"No Azura patrol is considered aware of your punishment and you are not to reveal what you know to them. All civilians are fair game. Your packmates are honorbound to assist but cannot deliver the message for you. There [i]will [/i]be deductions for immodest presentation. May fortune favor you, Daughter of Ceron!" And with laughter, with Joy, with silent feet, Ember's trainers and tormentors (because to the Ceronians, they are one and the same) disappear into the grass, leaving their packmate to swing in the predawn breeze, stifled by Defeat. Ember waits for them to disperse, hands clenched in her mittens, abs tensed.

Then she starts throwing herself into the swing.

She's light enough and strong enough that she'll eventually be able to get herself onto whatever she's suspended from. Blindfold's necessary to remove first; then she can take stock. [i]Give up. You are overwhelmed. Submit.[/i] And learning the scents of Ceron was only the first step in her education. Now she is learning the most important lesson of all: how to overcome them if an opponent tries to subvert the scents. And overcome them she will.

(Ignore the fact that she will be a mewling, hot-cheeked, ears-dropped mess by the time that she gets up there, and that one firm grasp on the back of her neck would have her on her knees. Ignore the fact that expecting an initiate to be able to overcome a pheremonal command is like expecting her to juggle a couple of mountains. In theory, there's a flimsy enough justification for forcing her to try, and when she manages to succeed, because she [i]is[/i] going to succeed, it should be enough of an upset for her to push Whitebark to the bottom of the pack in her place. [i]Struggling is useless. Doesn't it feel good to yield? Know your place, Daughter of Ceron.[/i])

Assuming everything goes well, assuming she doesn't have the bad luck of running into a patrol (or her girlfriend, which would be a different kind of luck entirely), assuming that she can get herself untied, assuming she can work the [i]focale[/i] off despite the padlock, her first order of business will be hunting down clothes. She's been trained in that, after all. Extensively. Infiltration, ambush, and distracting sensuality are all part of her training; if she can't get the drop on a farmer, she'll just use seduction to get one in a compromising position.

(And if you were to ask any of the smaller-framed farmers of Beri about a Ceronian spotted in the area before— blonde, short, figure like an extremely athletic nymph, perky-eared and perky-chested— they might blush, and laugh nervously, and say that the Ceronians are getting bolder this season. And they might remember smoky looks, and careful ropework, and a kiss in thanks, so much gentler than any Ceronian they'd ever dealt with before. And one in particular might remember stumbling on Lady Mosiac's dress draped over a bush and the sound of aggressive and thorough détente coming out from behind the lemon tree. But [i]that[/i] is hardly a secret at all.)