Balmas

Breathless Dead

Did Ramses know about this?

It's a terrible thought, one that catches her in the gut like a thrown brick. Is that why she agreed to go with her so quickly? Is that what kept them going down the hallway?? Those hands on her shoulders and clutching at her hair--was that real, or just an expertly practiced deception?

She tells herself that the look on Ramses' face is confusion and not guilt. It has to be. Please, she couldn't stand if it weren't.

She could charge. They're getting set up. If she's gonna face them, now's the time, before they're fully impregnable. The spear nudges against her hands, its familiar weight begging to be used. She stares at it, runs a thumb across its worn groove. If you're going to die for something...

Alexa takes a deep breath, forces herself to slow down, forces her voice to stablize before she turns to Ramses. "I think I need to take a rain check on our fun. Someone is trying to kill my friend. Do you know where the kitchens are on this ship?"

It's a ridiculous guess, but if someone there hasn't spotted a helpful fuzzy friend, she'll eat her own cooking.

[If needed, that's an 8 on Talk Sense.]

Fellowship: The Heart

"That's just what we need right now," he murmurs. "With any luck, your mirror clone will fight with my future self and we can solve both problems at once."

No, no. That's not fair to Jackdaw. He sighs, a long, frustrated exhale through pinched lips before leaning in to hug her.

"Then again, they could also join forces. Friends through time and the looking glass, eh?"

He's gentle when he takes Wolf's hand into his own. "Thank you, Wolf. Thank you for saving my friend." But he has to be extra gentle for this next step. "Jackdaw, what's the last thing you remember?

If there's a mirror clone out there, he wants to be darn sure this isn't it.

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at Aphrodite as if he'd just suggested a small act of genocide and blurts out, "That is not true!"

Or rather, that's what she tries to say. But somehow the words refuse to come out, stick in her throat, steal her breath away with the enormity of the lie.

Because that's been the image haunting her dreams since Molech, isn't it? To get away. To beg, plead, and wheedle with Hades for something to conceal her from the gods, stow aboard a ship, and sail till she finds a place where "molech," "empire," and "pallas rex" are meaningless nonsense sounds. Somewhere she can be--well, be someone else. Not the Pallas, maybe not even Alexa. To reinvent herself, be free of the past.

It's always somewhere by the mountains in her imagination. A place with a chill glacier stream tumbling down the rocks, feeding across the hills and down towards the town. A farming community perhaps, surrounded by rolling fields and shadowed by a nearby forest. She keeps chickens on the edge of town, gets dirt under her fingernails. Tells dirty jokes to the other old women, trades gossip about how Samantha needs to work up the courage to ask Azucar out, does she really think nobody can tell, and aren't the two girls so cute together? A good match, meant to be, really. Mockingly wags a finger at the little ones, tells them there'll be no pie for them later if they don't stop running through her rhubarb now--because, of course, this hypothetical version of her is also an expert cook--and affectionately shakes her head as the rumpus careens further down the lane.

An impossible vision, of course. Even if she managed to somehow outbid the wealth of empire with the gods, even if she'd tracked down and stolen the seal, she knew that any attempt to escape could only end poorly for anyone left behind--comrades, lovers, anyone she knew was a potential collateral in her escape. Anybody Molech knew about could be threatened to keep her in line. And when she'd thought and plotted how to take Minerva with her--

Well.

The dreams never stopped, really, when she helped Nero come to power. She had her niche, she had her peace, and she'd have to be incredibly selfish to want more. So shut up, dreams, you're being inconvenient. Quiet down, bottle yourselves up, and let her have this.

But now, they blossom anew in her mind, painting an image in vivid oranges and browns. A larger house than before, with more stories and more room. Smoke rises from the chimney, steam laden with smells wafts from the kitchen. This is the house of a family, not just a spinster hermit, full of stories and memories. That would be Isty's room--and oh, what a twinge of betrayal that it is Isty, and not Minerva--and she could have that study downstairs…

She gulps, and forces out, "I. I do want that. Want to run and be selfish."

She winces at the burst of muffled anger from inside Ramses' tentacles. Yikes. Yeah, that's gonna be a conversation, isn't it?

But the Alced! And the planet! The engines whine, and she can hear it echoed in the back of her throat. She hasn't seen them in decades! She can't see them driven back to--back to what she and Molech did to them! Can't just stand by and let it happen for--for the sake of a quickie!

The door in her dream house swings wide, and a sheep emerges, carrying a steaming pile of food. He turns and says something through the doorway, though she can't hear what. He's not supposed to be here--not here, not wherever this planet might be--he has his own life, his own endings to pursue. But she lets him draw her inside, past the small shelves of dogeared books and various souvenir knickknacks, to the dining room and its simple wooden table.

It's larger than it should be for just two people. Vasilia sits at one end, gesticulating wildly at Redana. The two look up, and happily accept ladlefuls of noodles before continuing their debate. Isty buries her knife in the cutting board, and comes to join. Even Galnius is here!

She swallows the urge to reach out, to pull someone--any of them, all of them--into her arms and squeeze for all she's worth.

"I can't," she groans, and she can feel the words carving a hollow into her chest. "Cannot run. You may be correct--it has been long since I saw the Alced, and not once have I reached out--but there are others I care for. They--"

Are the first to care for her without knowing what she was? Tell stories together? Value her as more than just a fighting machine? Might--and it hurts to think, in case she's wrong--might just be the ones to smash the seal for good?

"Surely, the love of friends is just as important?"

Breathless Dead

To Alexa's credit, she only takes half a step back from the window. Which is good, since her legs are insisting that she should be tackling the pair of beauties by her side and bullrushing them down the corridor. They'll just have to clack together with the nervous energy and be happy with it, okay?

Gods. Join with Ares? Wouldn't that just be the ultimate betrayal for the father who worked so hard to destroy him? She, the ultimate expression of the Warsage's mastery, the embodiment of his martial techniques, turns around and invites him in, sinks into the madness of battle?

And with Isty right next to her! Next to an Ares-driven warmachine! Her mind floods with visions of what could be, and red is a prominent color in most of them. A blood-mad Pallas, standing over a broken furry body! Or worse, somehow, that they stand together, eyes alight with unstoppable fury! Who could stand against them, halt them in their course?

But what's the alternative? What can love to do stop a battle? She tears her gaze away from Ares' leering grin to stare at the bar.

...Granted, if there's somebody who could stop her, it'd be Isty. Not two minutes ago she was feeling how strong those msucles were, how that fur sits on top of layers of iron sinews. And Ramses--she's felt the adept strength in those tentacles. She'd stop her if Alexa went mad, right? Might even be an entertaining end to the eveni--

Her heart drops into her iron shoes. No, Alexa. It's thinking like that which brought you to this point, remember? Letting your groin do the thinking? What makes you think they even care for you? What makes you think you're worth--

It's peculiar to notice a silence. But the moment Aphrodite stops flicking his lighter, the way that little chk-whrr cuts out, is so quiet as to be deafening.

He's glaring, he's gotta be. But when she dares to meet his gaze, it's more than even her practiced face-reading skills can interpret. Anger? Pity? Frustration?

She's pretty sure there are deserts that are wetter than her mouth right now, but she pulls up a chair and strikes a match for the god of love's cigar.

"I." Dammit, what does she say? "I can't let them. Can't let the Alced go through that again. But I don't know how to stop them."

Breathless Dead

What does she mean, probably nobody will die? Demeter? What?

In the back of her mind, she can't help but feel like she's missed something. Forgotten something. Some little mental gear has shaken loose in the past minute--she can hear it tic-tic-tacking across the floor of her mind, skating to hide itself under a cupboard somewhere.

“Still down here."

Alexa whirls around. 'You're not suppose to be here' dies unspoken in her throat, and now it's Redana's turn to receive the confused stare.

Did you know Redana could do that? She shouldn't be surprised, but it still astonishes.

Something about the image is off, insists her brain. She doesn't know what, can't tell.

But comprehension is swimming around the edges of her minds like a fin around a shipwreck survivor. Any second now, it's going to decide it's had enough of teasing her, and will dart in, mouth agape with razor realizations.

It's not the star at the heart of the image--that's part of it, no doubt.

Comprehension beats its massive tail and goes for the kill.

It's the hair, floating in a halo around the star. She spent months on this planet--endured typhoons, hurricanes, tornadoes. Was sandblasted almost to bare stone. She's seen every weather this planet can torment a body with, seen the effects on miserable troops.

This is new. She sees the leaves floating in reverse, sees the shine on the girl's face.

Alexa would need several things to turn white as a sheet--blood, skin, a complexion not already best described as marble--but she's giving it her best go. The cannon!--

As if to underscore the realization, the ship grumbles as one of the engines burns hotter.

"You’ve got—"

And she's out here, looking for a quickie! Gah! At least Redana only endangered herself for her stupid whims, not an entire planet!

Hot grief pushes her to her knees in front of the goddess. "Mistress of the hunt. This spear was given me of my mother--it has won many battles, slain countless foes. Stop the hermetics from firing their cannon, and I will burn it as a votive at your shrine."

She doesn't dare look away--or, vexingly, to meet the goddess's eyes. She can't bear the thought of the anger there--but worse, surely, would be pity.

Fellowship: The Heart

"Jackdaw!"

Wolf, stay. Give! Drop her! No, let him--dammit, give over--fine! You can help! Fine, yes, he's not strong enough to lift her on his own, so come with him!

Yes, yes, your pod, I remember, we'll deal with it, come on.

Aquarium is further away, yes. But it's also the more likely to have benches, and it's not until Jackdaw's sitting on one, food in hand and wrapped in a fresh blanket, that he stops fussing over her.

"Come on. Take your time, Jackdaw, small bites, that's it. But when you feel up to it, I want a name of the person who did this to you."

Breathless Dead

Alexa had thought it comforting to see the arrowheads and sheaves of hair on the altars of the ship's temple. No matter how unfit her offering, how burnt the food, someone was on top of the fitting appeasements.

Hastily, she withdraws a hand from a shirt--whose, she's not quite sure, she's quite lost track--and offers an apologetic smile. She doesn't want to step away--certainly not now, just when things are getting interesting. But ignoring a goddess is... well, let's be honest, right now it's super tempting. She self consciously brushes herself down, pats her clothes back to some semblance of decency, and bows her head. Short term tempting, yes, but still not a good idea.

"How may we serve the Mistress of the Hunt?"

Breathless Dead

"Ackgh-!"

Oh gods. She can feel the pressure of eyes on her, wondering how the hell a statue is having a coughing fit. Can she blush? She's never blushed before, but she's also never swallowed her own tongue and she's doing a great job of that!

Beautiful!

Objectively, it's true! I mean, modeled after Athena, physical perfection, insult to the goddess to imply anything less but--!

Beautiful!

And the coughing is only pressing them closer together, giving her ample opportunity to feel the sheer solidity of the woman holding her--the iron muscles, the softness of the skin. Mmm.

Beautiful!

Oh gods. Oh fuck, Ramses is looking at her--half-lidded, smirking, seeing what she's done and oooh, how it burns. She tucks her chin, not daring to match her gaze--and damn her, even the little chuckle she makes is cute. Breathe, Alexa! You trained for hours! You know how to blend into the background, become part of the scenery! The Warsage beat and drilled courtly etiquette into you! You should be prepared for this!

But none of that training involved cute girls telling her she's beautiful!

She opens her eyes--and finds Isty there, staring back. Is that fright? Excitement? Is this cowardice, fraternizing with the enemy?

("Fraternizing." Hooboy, wouldn't she just like to.)

Alexa manages a feeble--but very excited--grin, and kind of shrugs. No, this isn't how she wanted the evening to go. But she's open to being persuaded otherwise!

Once she feels she can talk without her tongue immediately swelling and trying to choke her, she turns a timid smile on Ramses. "You know, I do not believe Birmingham said you need to turn us in immediately. Surely, you could spare some time with us alone? We can continue our dance, and perhaps I can show you a new Path?"

(13 on Talk Sense with Wisdom.)

Fellowship: The Heart

Well, the simple answer to that is solemnly resolve that, in the future, he won't burn down any pods of Blemmyae. A butterfly flaps its wings, tornadoes happen elsewhere, problem solved!

Somehow, he doesn't imagine that this particular Blemmyae will be satisfied with that.

The complex-but-easiest answer is to wait for Black Coleman to show his face. Potential problems is that he might not be here, but the odds of that were fairly slim. But even if he were to negotiate with himself, there's no guarantee that this Black Coleman is one who comes before the tribe got wiped out. Spilt milk and all that, though it's a strange term to apply to genocide.

The simple-but-no-no-please-no answer is to delve to the center of the carnival--brave the midway, pay homage on the Jet Coaster, breathe deep the toxic fumes of the elephant ears until they practically glow with festivity... and ask the Ringmaster for help.

Breathless Dead

It's not that Alexa is a bad dancer. Indeed, she's privately very proud of her mastery of several forms, hard-earned through long training for court functions.

But she can also recognize when, like drills, she's just going through the motions.

Which isn't fair to Isty, and there's a part of her that dies at the thought that these mechanical motion will be their first dance together. Can she get a redo, please? Somewhere they can be alone? Somewhere she can convince her that no, this isn't how she normally dances?

She holds them tight and doesn't meet their eyes.

What kind of person is she?

The Pallas Rex, monster of Molech? A relic of a bygone age, chased by titles and battles fought and lost?

A tool? Tool sounds nice. A tool doesn't need to think about how it's used. A tool isn't complicit.

Alexa? A defender?

What kind of person does she want to be? Does she get a say in that?

"I am unsure," she admits. "I am someone who is trying to help those I care for. My captain. My friends. Isty."

She gives them a squeeze, almost more for her own sake than for anybody else's.

"We are probably more alike than you may know. In return, may I ask? What do you gain from capturing us? Advancement? Prestige?"