Balmas

Breathless Dead

Fuck, it's been.

It's been.

The fact that she can't remember how long it's been is probably a bad sign of how long it's been.

Because on the one hand, it's like. Sure, she's had time? Right? Part of the perks of being an Azura is that the system is, you know, designed around making sure you don't notice how much time goes into making sure you have time? To the point that once you notice it, it's, wow, it's a lot, and how didn't you notice that before?

Actually a lot of things are like that, now that she thinks about it? It's the point is that you're not supposed to see it. It's supposed to be a background radiation of heinous shit, invisible in its omnipresence.

Like, not wrong? Not wrong at all, in that even now, even this far from home, this far from everything, she still carries home with her like… Like an anchor? Except the anchor is actually everywhere because it's in her head and--

But also she's spent the past few months learning that you can't not plan? Not planning is a good way to get yourself taken over by Pix, or for you to find out that whoops, these two species aren't compatible and are crafting their own civilization out of bones?

Honestly, not sure what she expected. 'S illuminating, innit, but there's a reason that Dionysus isn't the god of kingship.

There's gotta be an in between. She's just gotta find out what it is, or, you know, failing that, make it.

Breathless Dead

There is, of course, only one answer.

To be clear, Dionysus isn't a patron god. Like, she's not offering oblations only to him, this is a temple to all the gods, which is what a ship needs, because otherwise gods get pissy and ships get piece-y-d.

But she made a promise. That was the deal, right? She got out of this--somehow, miraculously, godsped--and in the new heart of the growing acropolis, Dyssia works with quiet intensity. It's…

It's like, if she says she's focusing, that gives the wrong impression? It's not that she's shutting out the world.

It's that the world, in this instant, is made entirely of haze. Incense, half sweet, half noxious. The grit of mortar under her claws, a pleasant warmth sitting in her gut, a burning wearing away in her throat. She works not like a machine, but like a being entranced.

What is she working towards? Here, she has the attention of a god, purple pressing in from all directions.

That's the question bouncing around her mind, really, the one she's murmuring under her breath with every brick, every sacrifice, every offering. She knows what the world looks like under Apollo. Or at least, you know, under people who think they're doing what Apollo wants, and he hasn't disabused them of the notion yet?

Apollo is a god of prophecy. Dionysus offers mad sights.

Visit her with a dream of what's at the end of this road. What does Dionysus's perfect world look like?

Breathless Dead

And you know, it'd be so much easier if she weren't also standing inside the lever, right?

It's like, if she were on solid ground outside the ship--or, you know, not actually on the ground because ew, touching down, no thanks, but outside floating in a position where she can monitor the ship's progress through the air--it'd be so much simpler to place the singularities that'll keep the ship ascending slowly and gradually, not too quickly, not too slowly, smoothly and without bumps.

Because, you know, you'd be able to see the motion as it's happening, see where you need to muster your, eheh, forces, and, and here's the big deal, the lever isn't slamming you around as you're doing it?

She's doing her best to be gentle as she coaxes it up and out of the surf. This'd be so much simpler with a battlesphere, or something of the like--you just tell it which way to fall, instead of deliberately creating microsingularities in bursts. One big thrust, powered by your own gravity, instead of trying to pilot a baby deer across an icy lake with a jetpack while also sitting on the jetpack.

But also…

In the weirdest way, it's almost fun? It's like a game, but one where everyone gets shaken about if she fucks it up.

No, no, game is the wrong word. A puzzle. A challenge of wits between herself and the forces of nature. A high-paced puzzle with enormous consequences, but one which demands her everything as she's doing it. One hundred percent focus, total immersion.

Initially, she tries to insulate herself from the shocks by flying. You know, no touching means no shakes means in theory more accurate microsingularities. But after getting thrown about a few times, it hits her: it also means no feedback.

The second she touches down, it's instantly easier. She's still guessing where to place them, guessing which direction the ship needs to be pulled--but for every movement she makes, the ship lurches one way or the other, and as she goes, she learns to listen to the ship. Listen to its groans, its movements, and give it what it needs like a protective mother tending a child.

It's strange. She spent months aboard the Firetree, and she doesn't think she knows it as well as she's getting to know this ship.

Breathless Dead

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

God, it's only been.

… carry the two.

Shit. It hasn't been years, has it? Has to be year, singular, no s. Her mind doesn't fit the s, somehow.

"In the stories, it's easy to focus on the capital-H Hero, you know? Or Heroine, or whatever. One big shining star who comes in and solves the problem, defeats the monster of the week, and sails off into the sunset triumphant.

"And it gets worse if you're facing a super big problem, right? Because if you're the only one who can solve the problem, then in the time it takes you to fix one problem, fifteen more problems spring up in their place, like a hydra!"

Except, you know, possibly thornier, in that the hydras are also making more hydras who are super into hydras, and view hydras as a good thing?

"But the thing is, there might be heroes, yeah, and diplomats and legends in every field, but all of them are propped up by people who are working just as hard for none of the credit. If I'd shown up alone, I'd have been blown out of the sky by the Knight's legions.

"All of which is a long way to say, I see you, Vasilia. I wish I'd gotten here faster, and I’m sorry I didn't, but even if Mosaic is stealing your thunder, I'm still looking at this and going, wow."

Breathless Dead

Where the hell did she get a grav-rail?

Dyssia doesn't stalk through the flooded belly of the ship, because stalking is. You know, it's a very physical word, is stalking? Has all sorts of implications about like, positioning and hunting and probably sniffing the air or something. And you can't really stalk when you're using a gravrail to hover. But it also has implications of like, you can stalk your prey, or you can stalk imperiously, and she's doing the second one while hovering? Does that count?

Orders, is the point. She's coordinating the efforts, all but feeling the ship move under her. Which is, of course, physically impossible, see above RE: floating, but still? She's leading the song, the call and return call of hauling, all while she and Vasilia work.

And, again, where the hell did she get one? She shouldn't be bothered by it. But she is?

Not because it's Vasilia, to be clear! Or because she's a servitor, though, yeah, that's kinda weird? It's not completely alien for servitors to use a rail? Ceronians use them? But also Ceronians usually take them as plunder, as treasured relics?

But Vasilia's been… It's like, she can see that Vasilia has been trained? And trained by an expert? She knows the forms, and she knows the extensions of the forms? And she's obviously practiced, the movements fluid and natural?

But also anybody who's trained knows she's doing it wrong? Doing all the math wrong, not showing her work, and somehow coming to the right answer?

She shouldn't have let Vasilia help. Like, it can only go badly to have two people of different skill levels playing with gravity in the same space? But also she can't help but want to see what the cat can do. She's fascinating.

Breathless Dead

Holy shit, she's like a hero out of the storybooks.

The demigod, to be clear? Dyssia isn't that far off from what you'd see on the cover art, right? Noble, heroic, triumphant, unscathed after a campaign of painting another corner of space Apollonian blue--except for all the ways she's not those things, and actually painting a cover art of anyone dressed in red would be a good way to get odd looks from your peers--but still, at least heroic.

But the demigod--shit, right, listening--Mosaic, fuck that's a pretty name, is. Well, it's not like she could point to anything in particular. The blood, the scratches, the ripped clothing, the--gods, she looks like shit, someone get a medic please?--the all of it? It's like. No one thing in particular screams leader, but it's only because everything about her is crying King.

She has Ceronians following her. Honest-to-god Ceronians! An entire band!

Fuck she's glad she brought the diplomats.

Bureaucrats? Diplogats! Diplodocats, the hit new series about dinosaur kitty diplomats!

Point is, she can already see about fifteen ways for this to fracture--noses sniffing, whipping tails, bristling fur--even in the midst of the chaos, and she's glad there's someone here to help to smooth things over.

Not that she's entirely sure she needs it, because holy shit? Did we cover holy shit? It's worth saying again, because holy shit, she's pretty sure this Mosaic could smooth things over by herself.

"Did I-"

And here, she pauses, because inflections are important. It's just… it's so hard to get things right, you know? A hesiation, a phrase said wrong, and suddenly it sounds sarcastic and that's not what she's going for and you have a friend who's not talking to you or maybe even don't have a friend anymore, and that's not what she wants.

"Hero of Beri," she starts again, pouring as much sincerity as she can into the words, as much of the holy shit and admiration in her brain as will fit into three words. Hero of Beri, as honest compliment and title and acknowledgement of yes you are, are you kidding me you just threw a fuckin' city through a starship don't you dare gimme that self-deprecating crap. Hero of Beri, as the start of what she's pretty sure is gonna be a much longer list of titles.

"My name is Dyssia, I'm a knight of the Publica, and I'm here to help."

She stares at the beach again, counting heads.

"I place myself at your command, Mosaic. May I suggest we start by getting this ship in the air?"

Breathless Dead

[6,3. If this is Overcome, it's -1, and Dyssia will Pay a Price to turn it into a 10. If it's Keep Them Busy, it's a +1 and full success.]

Disruption is the key. Disruption, demolition, distraction.

And if there's one thing Dyssia knows, it's how to be distracting.

Well. You know. Distracting, capital-d Distracted. Close enough, right? You'd have to be pretty dumb to go this long in life and not figure out at least a few things about your own weaknesses, right, and how to turn them outwards?

Which, uh. Granted, does not actually work like that. Generally her distraction isn't due to having someone with a gravity whip pluck the tools out of her hands. So having the self-awareness to know that she moves on from something when it fails to, uh. When she reaches a certain level of, uh.

Look, work with her here, alright? She knows how to use a grav-rail, and how to do it well, and how to warp reality around herself faster than the people in front of her.

Or, as the case may be, above her. Or behind her. Up is relative when you're good at this.

Time and again, rituals are disrupted. Cockerels are plucked out of clawed priestess hands right as the knife is descending. Rail-wielding elites turn to pin her down, and she and her formation have gone. The Knight herself turns her whip to harry her troops, and the tip severs itself around a microscopic pinhole of neutron-star density.

It's dancing, is what it is. It's listening to the music in her head, and wondering why everyone is so sluggish. Can't they hear it? Can't they see the steps, feel how it pulses in her veins, fills her?

It's not enough. It can't be. Eventually, the Crystal Knight will rally her troops, and Dyssia will miss enough of the ritual to allow them to be smashed properly.

But Eventually is a long way away. And by the time Eventually happens, everyone will be on the ship. Can't face angry consequences if you've left them fifteen systems behind you.

And so, she dances, and leaves Eventually behind.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

Oh. Uh.

"I think they are? But I'm not actually sure? There was a lot of shouting happening at the time, right? And I was with this mean woman, who looks a lot like Hsien, but with more tails? I've seen her on the wanted posters. I think she's her mom? And then I kinda fell through a portal, and Mr. Chan found me!

"They'd look like me! And one of them would have a ball! Unless…"

She can think of a lot of small things she can turn into, right? Like mice, or squirrels, or if you wanna be gross about it, something like a flea? Could she manage a flea?

And then once she's small, it's like. You can always go smaller, but you need space if you wanna go bigger, so if you're small and someone's fast, they could just, like, toss a cup over the top of you, slip some paper over the bottom, and you're stuck in there until you can lift the cup! Which is not an easy thing when the cup is bigger than you!

And that's not even thinking about like, what if they turned into trees? She could walk past them in the park, and she wouldn't notice!

Well, she. She'd probably notice, because then they'd turn back into lions, and she'd get cuddles. Unless she got scolding! Or maybe, cuddles and then scolding and cuddles again? That doesn't sound too bad, but it'd be nicer to just get cuddles and then more cuddles.

"They'd be animals," she decides. "And probably the mean lady would wanna put collars on them, since that keeps them from transforming because I don't know why. And there'd be two of them, probably, and she wouldn't wanna let them get too far out of her sight.

"I think. I know it's not a lot but…"

Wow, it really isn't a lot. Not in a city this size. They could be in the next apartment over--you know, the one over the place that makes all the nice-smelling dumplings?--and she wouldn't even know it.

"Do you think… I'm realizing now it's gonna be super hard to find them. D'you think, maybe, if we showed me off, it'd trick the mean lady into coming to try and find me? So we can chase her back and find my parents?"

Breathless Dead

Carefully, Dyssia lifts the goblet to her lips.

It is not the first of the night. Strength and courage drip down her throat, warm and heady and fruity, the burn of alcohol under sweet, the kind of drink you could sip at all night and never feel until you woke up the next planet over.

But it's not the the feeling she's after--it's the wisdom. Or, you know, not specifically wisdom? Not like the kind of wisdom you'd get from a hermit, not unless you know the right hermits, the fun kind? The knowledge, the certainty, the knife's-edge of presence, the purple flitting around the edges of her eyes.

She sees them, there on the sand. More than should be visible through an aging door torn only halfway off its hinge. Sight granted where there should not be.

She sees the whips, the chains, the flesh-flensers. The bruises. The glee of cruelty for cruelty's sake.

The phalanxes, already in the air, like dots on a field, but also individual feathers. Raised spears, armor, impenetrable.

Unimportant. The purple tugs at her gaze, cups her chin, lifts it to stare at a town, rising like an island from the ground.

She read a story like that once. Funny how different it looked in her imagination.

"Clear a path!" she orders, one hand rising up to point, one hand thumbing the controls at her belt. "Whoever's over there! Clear the path to this ship for them!"

She's read this story. Hell, she's been in this story, less than three planets ago. She is here, she is a miracle, but she is a miracle for someone else. That town. This ship. And all that's there to stop her is wave after wave of phalanx.

Breathless Dead

She's been thinking about this, you know. Surprise is worth a lot in these missions. Surprise is the difference between touching down with a thousand servitors to save the day or meeting a waiting army.

Or, as the ship rattles around her and the augurs calls ring in her ears, becoming so much space dust among the orbital mines. Thank you, Brightberry, you're a lifesaver and you're getting so many cuddles once this is done.

She should be scared, shouldn't she? This should be terrifying. She should be panicking, and making mad promises, and whatever it takes to keep her crew--her crew! her legion!--safe and alive. She shouldn't feel like she's coming alive again, exhilarated, vibrant, coursing with energy not entirely her own.

So when she steps up to the alter and promises she's never going to go home, it feels natural. Peaceful, even.

Oh, there are other promises. She will build a temple to Dionysus on the next ship to take her off planet. That's a given. There are few enough to Dionysus, few enough worshippers, furtive and hidden, and she will make sure there are more for her passing.

But it's the offer to never go home that feels more important to her personally. She… She's never going to see the friends of home again. She will give up an entire planet--not as a sacrifice, not to be destroyed for anyone else, but for her in particular. She will continue on a peregrination across the cosmos, helping as she can, teaching and being taught as needed, and influencing people towards Dionysus, speaking for him, housing him as needed.

It's insanity. What's the journey for, if you can never come home?

It's overpaying, it has to be. Shrine and journey and home, in one swoop? For buying even just enough alarm time to get them in?

But it means the journey continues. For all of them.

Worth it.