Balmas

Breathless Dead

Sure, she could spend all day chasing people who do not want to be found. It would, of course, be no end of satisfying for the Magi to see a petitioner worn down and frustrated before they will deign to see her. That's how the game is played--important people are acknowledged and seen, while the weak and impotent are ignored or demoted from existence.

But why should she do that when she knows where their workshops are? Let them run around and avoid her all they wish--so long as she holds this crucial ground, they will eventually have to face her if they wish to collect their tools and artefacts. She is nothing, after all, if not expert in standing still and being threatening.

"Please don't touch that."

Alexa ignores the Coherent, and tugs open another drawer. Tools jangle noisily as she digs, shoves incomprehensible thingamajigs around in her search.

The big lug seems friendly enough, which is his first mistake. She is here, somewhere she should not be. You never rely on them being nice and doing what they're told. You're here, you own this space, you don't let them dictate the terms.

Ah, finally. This tool probably isn't meant to be used as a wire brush, but it's got enough stiff wires sticking out to be good enough. The coherent winces, she notes with some satisfaction.

Hey now. No biting. Yeah, it hurts, I get it, but we gotta get that rust off if we're gonna make any progress.

See what a mess she's making? Better run and tell your boss what she's doing before she has a chance to mess up anything volatile.

Fellowship: The Heart

Engines are not meant to run this hot.

Coleman knows this. You run an engine too hot for too long, and, well… You hear the stories, right? Of engines that have burst, their boilers ruptured. Of flayed innards, derailed cars. Of entire crews that perish with their gods. They're meant as cautionary tales, as rumors and legends of Things One Must Not Do.

And still he feeds her.

Instincts he does not know jam the coal chute open. Fire roars from the firebox with every open and shut. Sasha glows with energy--first cherry red, then passing through molten orange sliding towards white.

And still, he stokes Sasha to greater heights. Dimly, he's aware that his clothes have started to burn, the denim smoking and charring, the brass buttons and fittings running and pooling around his feet. There are clowns outside. He knows this, can see them through the portholes, can hear the demonic ovens spitting the battle pies. Feels, more than hears, the movement But here, in this moment, he sits in the furnace that is Sasha and can only feel peace.

Sasha pricks at his mind, needles to be let in, and he could no more say no to her right now than he could sprout wings and fly. (Though, with the euphoria he's feeling, he's not ruling that last bit out either.) She's uncomfortable, he can feel--every seam is stretched fit to bursting, every rivet whines with the effort of holding things together.

He falls deeper, senses stretching out, every sense attuned to what Sasha is feeling. Reaches out with her, feels the minds around them. Sees themselves from the views of the clowns, views the terrors of the jet coaster from those trapped on them, listens to the world around them. Feels the line between them blur, blur, slide…

Their scales hurt. They're coming apart, they can tell.

Well, of course they are. That's the point, after all.

Is it? That makes no sense. If they come apart, then they'll die.

No! It's not pain of dying. It's the pain of growth! Of a shell that's too small, a chrysalis that's reached its limits!

And they understand, now. Understand why it has to be a kobold. Why they seek the hottest part of the Heart. Understand that getting an engine hot enough to molt is so dangerous as to make the journey to Terminus tame by comparison.

Does every engine egg come to this realization? Do they all come to a point where either they reach Terminus and are hatched safely, or burn themselves out at a threat? And in this case, do they have another choice?

Together, they reach for the throttle.

There's no line between them, now. They think in tandem, act In unison, pull from all minds around them. They're a golden god, bowling through the clowns like a hot knife through butter. Flames belch, clowns sizzle. Keep on eye on Wolf, make sure she's following.

They're never far from Jackdaw or Wolf. But they make a point of taking apart the carnival one ride at a time.

Breathless Dead

Alexa pauses, weed in hand.

She's not actually sure whether it's a weed or not? It's thornier than the rest of the greenery, certainly. Stem is thicker, veiny, and coarse. And the roots go deep, tangling with the roots of the trees and binding like arcane knots.

It's the perfect reason to get down in the dirt, though. She's filthy from the knees down. Mud squelches moistly between her toes. And her fingernails have a pleasant thickness underneath them where dirt has gotten stuck in the crevices. If her father could but see her today...

But she's making a difference! See where she's watered, how the dirt is darker? How the purple buds of the delicate flowers under the weeds perk up, seek out the light? It's simple, dirty work, but...

It's immensely satisfying to see where the world is better for her being there. Carefully, she tosses the weed onto the pile and reminds herself to take the lot out of the garden--no sense in doing all this work and then letting the pile take root again.

Still, she keeps her eyes on the dog as she slowly gets to her feet, brushes the dust off her knees. See, boy? Hands out, palms up. Go on, give her a sniff. Smell that? Smells like friends, doesn't it?

It's in bad shape. Probably painted at some point, though the soil and rust haven't done it any favors in that area. Not any markings she recognizes, or, if it comes to that, a model she's familiar with. So, not a castoff of Molech, refurbished into a pet. Something older?

It snuffles against her palm, and then walks--no, limps, she sees--back to the ball. One leg drags against the ground, and so its entire rear end hopskips as it noses the ball towards Alexa.

How long has it been since this old dog got to chase a ball? Got to run, legs pistoning, tongue lolling?

She allows a smile, and sits down next to the dog. "Come, let us get you fixed up. And then we can play, okay?"

Breathless Dead

Once, there was a fence. See, right there, where the ground dips? The firmer stones, arranged in a line, that must have held fenceposts? Grass plays along it, grows greener where the remains have fallen, decomposed, and become more fertile soil. And that patch of mossy cobble--so unusual in its straightness--can only have been a shed of some sort. She almost expects a figure to emerge, pick up a rake or a trowel, and continue to care for its orchard.

Because that's what this is. This is no random group of trees, run wild where the seeds first fell. This is a place of care, of nurture, and she would dearly love to know what drove its first planters away. Were they humans, scooped up in Nero's galaxy-wide collection? Servitors, tending it on behalf of their masters? Did something happen to them that would mark this as a place of danger? Should she be concerned for those around her?

It would be a terrible thing to be caught unawares on a strange planet. But as she picks her way along the fenceline, admiring the trees, she can't convince herself they're in danger. And surely...

Well, surely the Alcedi must be able to spot the danger better than she can? The Princess is well-guarded. There is no threat here. Surely, surely, she must be able to...

Well, to take some time for herself?

Finally, she finds the spot where two fenceposts must have been closer together. And the grass here bursts from between small stones, the remains of a path. Yes, this must have been the entrance.

She debates whether she ought to follow the path back the other way. It must lead somewhere, certainly? A farmhouse, perhaps? A ruined city? Or perhaps this simply fell into ruin because other orchards, more prosperous ones, are in use?

The thought brings a twinge to her chest. That this could be abandoned--such a lovely spot! How the reflections from the debris play across the leaves, paint them in shades of orange and purple, cast bands of blues and yellows through the grass--the thought brings a twinge through her chest.

Right.

Carefully, gingerly, she takes off her shoes. Places them outside the gate. Folds the long outer clothing neatly, brushes off a patch of dew-soaked grass, places the bundle next to her shoes. Lowers the Aegis and spear to the ground, neatly, carefully.

And then, facing the orchard, she bows deeply.

It is her privilege to be here, in this place, at this time, enjoying the fruits of those who so dearly cared for it. It's in disrepair now, but this was once a place of love. And now that she's here, she intends to make it one again.

Breathless Dead

At this point, being useless would be the very gift of the gods.

Useless would mean that the exercise in pincer tactics would end in squabbling and infighting, instead of having her mock forces cut apart and routed. Useless would mean that the spear in her hand would feel unfamiliar, but not so awkward that she's a danger to those around her. Useless would mean that everywhere she go, she might see exasperation from people, but at least she would see people. People would not make awkward excuses, or turn abruptly when they see her entering the hall, or have conversations drop out around her.

Useless, in short, would mean not making things worse for being present.

How great her folly must seem! She, who truly believe that she was the greatest fighter alive! Heir to the greatest tradition of strategy, recipient of the finest training! She, who felt she must restrain herself, lest her unreleased fury harm those around her! How great the folly of Molech, to imagine that by codifying rules of war, he could cage her, bind her! She has displeased the goddess of war, and like that, her vaunted skills take flight and leave her worse than she started.

What is she, if not the greatest warrior? If she's not that, then what does that leave for her to be? What's left behind when you cut away the trappings of the warrior princess?

She wanders the hall, dodging the faces of those who must surely be able to see the cloud following her. Is she running away? Running towards? Just moving, to leave the thoughts behind? If she can just find a spot to make her stand, plead her case--

Then what? She's worse than useless as is--Athena turns her plans to ashes, spites her efforts, brings whispers of curses as she passes. But if she goes back-- Back to being as she was--

The thought sits in her chest like a brick. She has to appease Athena if this journey is to succeed. Has to make recompense for the murder of her father, if the gods would smile on her again. But what does that mean? How?

And so she wanders, not even knowing what she's looking for but knowing it's not here.

Breathless Dead

"You know, I used to think that too?"

Hooboy, did she. Redana had doomed them all with her idiotic vision! She'd pitted the four of them against the might and wealth of empire! It was just a matter of time until they got captured, or eaten by monsters, or thrust into the heart of a star. She'd gotten an idea in her head, and was so used to her palace that she hadn't thought how to make it happen or the risks to those around her.

But...

Offerings, carefully made on altars. A listening ear, in midst of crab battle.

"And maybe, setting out, that would have been true. But I feel if you were to give her a chance, she might suprise you. She is not so innocent now as she was."

She's changed. They all have.

Fellowship: The Heart

Not everything can be blamed on Wormwood, but it'd be damn nice to think that this could have been avoided.

So, can't fight. Running could have been an option, but he and Sasha are running towards it. He scans the wisdom passed down from his pappy for ways to survive, and mostly finds "don't be here." Practical, but not very useful.

He crosses the distance to Jackdwaw in two strides, and huddles behind the cart. "I sure hope you know how we can get Lucien back," he says, "because I'm pretty sure Sasha won't survive fighting that. What've you got?"

Breathless Dead

It's amazing how you never really notice the ceiling, right? Walls and floors and furniture get so much more credit in daily life. Has this section of the Plousios always had vines running along and around the beams? She stares up at the flowers, picks out blossoms, admires the way the bioluminescence shifts and coruscates, painting the ceiling in soft pastels.

What even can she say?

"At least you had a chance to fuck up?" Bitter. Biting. Not really helpful. Takes the question and shoves it back in her face. We didn't fuck up! Bella got hoodwinked and locked in a closet! I was stolen, kidnapped, shanghai'd into piloting a ship! What's your excuse, Mynx? What were you doing while Redana escaped? What was I supposed to do, cosh her in the head, fight off the other two, and singlehandedly fly a ship back through the depths of space?

Although... Well, that might have been true, back when they started. There genuinely probably wasn't something she could have done then. But.. Back in the eater of worlds? Backed up by Bella, Galnius? Redana gagged, no ability to command her? She could have turned this around, then. She chose not to.

Why?

She could have gone home. Gone back to her niche. Forgotten about the worlds she'd seen. Could have plead her case to Nero.

Why didn't she go when she had the chance?

"I am." she admits. "Terrified, I mean. I keep thinking that this has to be a fluke. That we cannot keep getting away with it. That when we come back--are brought back by force--Nero will chip me up for a gravel garden, Vasilia and Dolce will be forcibly split up, and Redana will never see daylight again."

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman is not so vain as to think that the Heart will fail without him. He's not here to kill King Dragon or set right the abuses of the monarchy. The shifting pathways to the depths of the Heart are littered with the remains of train eggs and the knights that failed. If he and Sasha don't make it, the only ones to mourn him will probably be the crew of the Mighty Natascha.

But, as he feeds the nugget of coal into Sasha's burner and receives the answering purr, well... Well, the Vermissian's gonna fail with him. It maybe wasn't his fault that Wormwood imploded while he was there, but he was there. Ain't it at least his job to make sure that things don't entirely explode just 'cause he wasn't good enough?

Over his thoughts, though, he can hear the screams, feel the wind. The Carnival is heaving, the screams of tormented passengers turning to screams of joy from the clowns. Something is wrong. The world is red and white and--

He eases the throttle forwards, and Sasha's steps turn to a run.

He should be running away. Sasha comes first, right? If she's crushed by something, then he's not going to be able to help anyone. But if he runs...

If he runs, it's every train for themselves. It's scrabbling over dwindling resources. It's "not my problem."

The world bleaches white and red as he approaches the screams. Bones and crows and clowns, a fury of winds, the Ringmaster in all his glory, like skin stretched over something that's forgotten how to be human, and above it all...

Below it all, Jackdaw and Wolf behind a donut card. Lucien, dangling limply from a fist made of all the wrong bones.

And somewhere in there, a path that lets all of them get out alive.

[5,6,+1. 12 on Look Closely.
-Tell me about the Ringmaster. How could they hurt/help me?
-What will happen if I join in on the Ringmaster's side?
-Tell me about the things summoned by Victory of Crows. How can they hurt/help me?]

Breathless Dead

Alexa gingerly steps over the obvious mine and... Entirely fails to detonate a second, better-hidden mine? That was her icebreaker, Mynx! She was supposed to feel something click underfoot, have just enough time to look up into smirking eyes, and lose Mynx in the blast of gaseous pellets! You're really letting the side down, you know that?

She navigates to the couch, nudging scattered clothing and nibbled-at-but-almost-untouched food out of her path until she has room to sit against the base of the couch.

And now that she's here, back against the mottled, mustard-yellow velour, she doesn't even know what to say.

"She really is not here" is an option. It has its merits. Direct. To the point. Blunt. Can pretend she gives a damn about 'catching the assassin' for the peanut gallery bristling around the door.

Oh, yes, Alexa. Brilliant. She's sad. Throw it in her face, why don't you? I'm sure she'd just love to be reminded of it. Sigh city, population Us.

"Redana talks about you?" Small talk. Great. Remind her of the past, back when they were all just... Well, not friends. Co-workers? Not-not-friends? People who all had Redana as a common link? Wonderful. Highlight that they weren't and, kind of, aren't together.

Geez. Redana makes this friendship thing look so easy.

She examines the merits of "yes, and"-ing Mr. Sergistan. Engages at the level Mynx is currently at? Allows her to slip in a joke about crew manifests, stowaways, and overzealous potential crewmates who, can you believe, think you're an assassin, I mean, how silly is that?

She sighs, lets her head flop back, and joins Mynx in staring at the ceiling.

Receives an answering, heavier sigh.

Yep. That about says it all, doesn't it?

"I still cannot believe how far we have come," she admits.