Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa smiles in wonderment as she studies the crabs with new appreciation--notes, past the rippling silk and glistening jewels, the notches and cutouts in the armored shells. Of course! If you know you're facing airborne troops, you need to be able to reach and face in different directions! And the bulk of the armored legs is much thicker--all the better to absorb the thunderblow of a divebombing Alcedi! Troops, purpose-built to counter her own!

Wonderful! Oh, this makes things so much easier!

She leans across the desk conspiratorially. "I feel it only appropriate to let you know that I have standing orders to immediately murder anybody plotting against Emperor Molech. I take no pleasure in this! But I must warn you to mind carefully the words you speak--if you set off the geas, you will probably win the battle, but we all lose.

"So with that in mind: Molech wants you working for him. You want me working for you. Consider me intrigued. Do fill me in on your meaning."

Breathless Dead

This is not a negotiation, to be clear; this is a demand, a show of force, a demonstration. There is to be no neutrality for the creatures of Poseidon, no chance of a sudden attack from within. The high walls bristle with Alcedi warriors, waiting to drop like hail. The very air thrums and pulsates with the force of wings flapped in unison. Know your place, fit where you're told, and you can serve with us. Fail to join or, gods forbid, oppose Molech?

Alexa clutches her spear, and wishes they'd just hold still for one second. Let the thunder of wings die away, and give her a chance to think. Or! Better and better! Leave entirely! Let her face the court alone!

Quietly, she proffers the spear to one of the more intricatedly-carved battlecrabs.

The noise above her grows louder as the murmur of angry, dissatisified soldiers joins the beating of wings.

"For all it matters," she says, taking a seat across from the Assistant Secretary, "I hate this as much as you. But surely you can see that neither of us are able to stand against this? Better to work together than shed each others' blood to no end?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa presses the bundle of sheets against her face, and does her best not to cry.

Which makes no damn sense. There's nothing special about them. They aren't a treasured gift from a friend or the loot of a dangerous battle. There're bedsheets like them in every cabin in the Plousios, and gods know she's got more important things to cry about.

But they're her bedsheets. Redana had given her the cabin and everything in it. Showed her how the sheets could be ordered to change color, pattern, even plushness.

"How would you like me to set it up?"

"You decide!"

Just like that? No, uh, no pattern in mind? No preference for, say, an emblem or a flag?

Nothing?

Just. The idea that the sheets, the cabin, everything in it. All for her. For her to do with as she pleased. A private space. Somewhere she could decorate without anybody else's input.

The pile on the bed is almost accusatory in its size. You let yourself trust, Alexa. Now look at what you've done. Now you have all these memories, and every one of them needs a resolution before Molech uses them to learn who to hurt.

And yet, she wishes it were larger. That she hadn't been so hesitant to accumulate them. That she'd spent more time with others in the ship, picked up more memories.

Rusty's bed, at least, is easy. Molech knows about Rusty already, so there's no reason to hide it.

Unless… Maybe it's better Rusty spends time with the Coherents? Murvle certainly spends a lot of time petting her whenever he goes out at poker night, and it would at least put a layer of separation between them…

The recipe notebook is next. Easy enough--she already knows all the drinks recipes from long campaigns' worth of memorization, so in theory, those pages could go. But if she rips out those pages, it'll make the newer pages--battlecrab in sweet potato mash, a delicate tea recipe, and so on--stand out like a freshly-polished diamond in a pile of coal.

Does Molech know about Ramses? Has he been paying that enough attention? She has to assume he doesn't know, has to treat it like a threat. She can't destroy half of it…

The kitchens! Of course! That's how you hide something--put it where it won't be noticed. Who'd notice a little scrap notebook of recipes amongst dozens of others?

And… Well, if things go poorly, at least Vasilia will have a chance to try out some more of Colonel Shad's old mixups.

All too soon, the pile is sorted. A reddish lock of hair. A fragment of battlecrab shell. A sketchily put-together plaque. All tied to friends, all representative of possible victims. All selfishly put in a pile to save, or to hide, or to give away. None destroyed, or set alight, or put somewhere forever out of reach.

Soon, all that's left is the letter.

And… well, Molech's known about her for centuries.

She never does end up changing the bedsheets back to default.

Breathless Dead

The architects built this hallway too damn wide.

It's more crowded than even the market. Azura in every shade of blue mingle with servitors and supplicants. Everywhere, the susurrus of softened speech and hushed voices. Prayer, study, books, people further than the eye can see.

And around each one, there's space. Ample room to pass without disturbing anyone. Not a single opportunity to bump against someone, or dance between passing students, or apologize profusely for knocking someone down and sending the jar careening down the hall.

As if she could do anything but cradle the jar like a baby.

Finally, she spots an open room, and darts for it like it's salvation. She slams the door behind her, lowers the jar gently onto a desk, and scans the room. The chair seems like it'd splinter well--some kind of antique wood, high-backed, overly stuffed and plush. Perfect.

The spear whistles as it comes down--and stops, twitching, an inch from the velvet padding.

Or my property. Damn. Damn!

She wills the spear to drop that last inch, and, after a futile few seconds, sags into the chair.

"I thought for sure that she would kill you," she spits. "That is what you taught me, after all. An enemy who will not be turned to usefulness? Who has fought you for years? Surely, you would have not have permitted her to live if your positions were reversed. I could not strike the blow myself, but if I delivered you into her hands, gift-wrapped, she could not help but solidify her reign.

"And then, on Barassidar, again I thought myself rid of you! A head in a jar! What could be more harmless? A threat to no-one! No mobility, no divination, no empire, no friends! A kinslayer I, cursed of the gods, and happy to be so if it meant you were gone!"

She seethes, and finally meets his gaze. "How many times, Liu Ban? How many times must you die before I can finally be free?"

Breathless Dead

"Unfortunately, I am quite nearly useless."

She sits in the chair, hands pressed against the desk as if it only her force of will can keep it from lifting off the floor. Already, her palms ache and her fingers have started to tingle, but that's good! It means her hands are carefully staying still, and not clenching and unclenching in her lap, or itching to take up the spear neatly leaned against one corner of the office. Still is good. Still isn't threatening. Still has a chance of convincing him she can't be turned to violence.

Pace, damn you. Fiddle with a pen. Walk back and forth in front of your wall of books--run scaly fingers across the layer of dust across their tops, pick through the titles. Do something other than stare at her, something except examine her like a butterfly on a pin.

"Certainly useless as a weapon," she bites out, "considering my bodyguard track record."

She hasn't been down to that part of the ship since Barassidar, and she still refuses to look at the jar.

"I will admit to being curious what possible use you could have for us. A failed dictator and the guard who betrayed him? You must have a reason to seek out a couple of has-beens like ourselves."

Breathless Dead

She won't go back!

She writhes in the coils that bind her, heedless of the fangs against her neck. Feels them binding, tightening, threatening to crack stone and part brass as she kicks, wriggles, claws, anything to get away! Throws her head back in hopes of breaking a nose, throws it forward and bites scales with all her might, anything to get the tail binding her to drop her!

Won't go back! Won't be that thing again!

There's no language in the scream. It's terror and fury, animal and primal, ragged and raw, and it takes her a second to realize that it's coming from her. She wails and cries and screams, eyes on the dreadful, damned seal that's going to take her away.

Won't go back won't go back won'tgobackwon'tgobackwon'tgoback!--

Breathless Dead

Alexa's vision is full of fist.

She has just enough time to note FURY picked out across the knuckles, and then her head is ringing like a bell. She staggers back, one arm clutching her face and another raised to catch the incoming swing of the whip staff. A quick yank knocks Thug #2 off balance and buys her a second to look around.

Skotos is gone. Taken? Ran away? Gods, let her have run away. Rusty's gone too. Good sign, they're unlikely to have captured a dog quietly.

A whistling noise reminds her that she's fighting, and she raises the Aegis just in time to turn Knuckle's haymaker into a wrist-stinging blow.

But... Her eyes scan the square for escape routes. She doesn't need to fight them, doesn't want to fight them, not even with her mother scowling at her. There! An alleyway, dark enough and cramped enough for her to monkey her way up the walls, up and out and over across the rooftops.

It probably would have worked, too, in any other world. A lash out with the butt of the spear to crack against Knuckle's wrists, a twist of the whip to send it into Eyebrow's face, and a quick dash to the safety of the roof.

In any other world, the thugs couldn't fly.

[6 on Get Away.]

Breathless Dead

"And what if we are?"

She stares at the departing god, spear drooping low. Is it anger that fuels her words now, or pity? Hades seems... Angry, yes. But despondent, too.

"What if we are doomed? Cursed to fail? Are we to give up? Accept it?

"You seem so certain we are not to succeed. Very well. Shall we cut our losses and settle here, with the Azura? Shall we return the Plousios? Perhaps there is a future in giving advice to the next crew?"

Two hundred and fifty years of disappointment. Of seeing crews fail to achieve your goal.

"You are wrong, I think. I certainly hope you are, because if you are not... then we will still go on, risk or no.

"But I am at least a little hopeful because... Well, you are wrong about my wish. It is not for myself."

She sighs.

"I gave up, you know. Wanted peace, and convinced myself that a niche with no fighting was what I wanted. And I could have it again, I think--Redana would probably even give me the seal, if she knew how and I asked. I could join any ship, travel somewhere, and start anew. Instant peace.

"But a niche is not good enough anymore."

It's wonderful, isn't it? Miraculous, even.

"I do not want to fight. But if I want to get my wish, my friends must also get their wishes. Their happy endings. And if that means defending them..."

She rubs the worn spot pensively.

"... I think I can be okay with that."

Breathless Dead

"I!"

The philosopher probably doesn't mean her words to bite like knives, like angry wasps. Doesn't mean them as attacks that arrow past all her defenses and sink deeper than any spear, lance into her like tongues of flame.

Why does she want to defend her friends? What else could she want?

What else is she useful for? To be the impenetrable barrier, the invincible wall is the very reason for her creation! It's what she was trained for, beaten for, broken to mold her into!

A defender--no, a defense--is what she is! It's all she knows, all she's good at, all she's good for!

"I!"

But... The brass tongue feels hot in her mouth. And that's new. That wasn't part of the design. The Pallas doesn't need taste to root out traitors, to smash the enemy, to lead the charge and be the perfect soldier.

And what of the others, hmm? Dolce looks so dashing in his new captain's hat, doesn't he? But he was raised a chef, hmm? Ramses wasn't born with his tentacles, but look how hard he's worked to make them a part of himself? None of the Coherent are satisfied with the forms they were assigned at birth, are they? They move and grow and change themselves to better match that vision.

What's her vision?

"I."

The hut in the forest by the river. Domesticity. Family. Good food, good friends. A place to cherish. Safety. A place to nourish and be nourished.

"I don't know," she admits. "And if I had a choice in it, then I would not wish to fight. Do not want conflict. Want to find a place that will never face those threats, where I can be at peace.

"But... If not me, then who? We journey to Aphrodite's Rift and beyond. We face thugs and soldiers and brigands. If I do not protect them, who can? Who could I trust to step into that role? Who should I assign that burden?"

Breathless Dead

For a second, Alexa ponders taking her shoes off to see where her stomach must have landed.

They're not hesitating at all. Drawing weapons, here, in the middle of a crowded square, full of witnesses. Granted, most of the crowd has turned to watch the argument--you know, whichever portion of the crowd was not already made of disciples--but still. To draw weapons on newcomers…

They're not going to stop coming until she does something. Run away. Talk. Stop them by force.

The spear does not leap to her hand. Does not dance in the air, warm her hands like a living being, practically aim itself at the foe's every vulnerable spot. It does nothing but sit in her hands, a length of wood with a point at one end.

Fretfully, she runs one thumb along its worn groove. That's still the same, at least. Can she swing this well while carrying an initiate? Aim, with two arms propping up someone else, and only one arm per side for fighting? Probably not the best idea to figure it out in the middle of fighting off slavers, but the smile on her face

Alexa takes a first practice swing. Awful. Terrible. Formless. Slow. Easily blocked.

"Your"--shit, titles, um--"Blessed Master!" Nailed it. Hopefully. "I crave your wisdom!

Second swing. Artless.

Can't turn to check on faces, expressions. Is the argument slowing down, she hopes?

Stab. Hmm. Potential. Amateurish, but look for pairings. Stab high, and then… where to bring the shield?

"In the course of our travels, I have lost the blessing of Athena Areia! How may I have the strength to protect my friends if I do not wish it again?"