“We need to know their [i]mon[/i] and lineage,” Ember of the Silver Divers says. Her tense air is surely just eagerness to fight. She is Ceronian, after all. Thus the restless tail, the bouncing on her heels, the ears at attention. “Then we can start planning where and how we’re going to fight.”

She’s trying so hard not to look at Mosaic, both because of the feeling prickling along her spine and because, well, look at her! She’d be useless to the Tyrant of Beri with Venus arresting her eyes. She needs to be alert. She needs to pay attention. She needs to figure out what is making her fingers itch and her mouth wet. Maybe the Synnefo?

(After all, the Synnefo are perfect targets for any daughter of Ceron. What better challenge than to turn the unflappable, aloof bureaucrats into bleating, flustered messes? What more comfortable trophy than sheared wool? Every one has their weak spot, and it’s a long, delightful game to find it~)

This one’s good, though. Hardly blinking in the face of half a dozen members of the clan, all eyes fixed on him: half-lidded, hungry, proud. Go ahead, little sheep. Be a good boy and give us our quarry.