Phoe

Breathless Dead

Beautiful. Whoever came up with that name must have been on some powerful drugs. There is nothing about the woman in front of her that she could call 'beautiful', at least by any objective standard she's aware of. Her sister's assessment of herself is startlingly accurate: the emaciation and the tension of her stress response has left her looking stringy and jittery in a way that makes it uncomfortable to look right at her for too long. Her feathers seem sickly and ready to fall out all on their own, without the need for her nervous plucking to speed them along. She even smells unpleasant, in that hollow-sweet way of the dying.

But then there are her eyes. Those piercing, violet eyes. So bright and alive and sharper than a knife that looking into them feels like falling into a bottomless pit while being dissected at the same time. Even as tired as they seem, they gleam with a curiosity that seeks to understand every last detail of everything around them, even (especially?) the most familiar things around. But more than that, there's a light of something the girl can't really describe. There's a word for it, one she's sure she's supposed to know but just the simple concept slides right off of her brain and back into nothingness.

Maybe Beautiful is the best way to describe her after all.

The girl sighs as she hunches down in front of a locked door. Her body is tense, but not in the way her many-named sister is attempting to explain. There is nothing of tiger goddesses inside of her. Probably. But her claws are sharp and ready, and they cut through the handle of the door so swiftly she doesn't even register the tactile feedback of the metal pushing back against her before it's gone. There's a whisper of something sliding open and then a clatter of pieces on the step at her feet. The door swings open freely. This is how you pick a lock.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Sister. Unless you would... prefer I not call you that? The word feels right and wrong at the same time, I don't understand it. There's... well, anyway. I'm not shooting you. And if you wanted to die there are better ways to go about it. You wouldn't even know it was-- mm."

She gestures through the open door.

"I need you to lead. I don't know what the drugs they might be keeping in here look or smell like. Rampancy is not a game we should be playing, and in any case constant stress is no good way to live."

As she stands, she frowns and shakes her head. A small and hopeful spark dies inside her sister's eyes, and as quick as she is to disguise her face and her body language, she can't do anything about the pheromone release of pure disappointment leaking from her pores. A few sad feathers drift to the ground before they're caught up in a passing breeze, and dance with each other for a moment before they fall inert forever.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could remember the details, or at least why it feels ironic to be speaking to you like this, but I just don't. I do know that word, though. I'm never going to forget it; it's the reason why I'm here in the first place. I made a wish, you know. On that sword. There are people that I care about, so much that I think it could drive me insane. And for some reason almost all of them carry this disease. Is it because I know the pain it causes, too? Is that why I want to wish it away?"

She cuts a regal figure even here, burglarizing this house for sedatives she has no understanding of. Her back is straight and even her ruined clothing hangs off of her in a way that makes her seem like a queen instead of someone desperately trying to do something, just anything at all to help so that she doesn't fail the person watching her and lose her like she's managed to lose everything else. And maybe it takes a queen's courage to admit that you're scared to lose the only person you've ever known whose violet eyes and nonsense speeches stand among the lone treasures of the universe that make her feel like she belongs somewhere.

Not for any grandiose reason like she keeps trying to put to it. But because she is a small and needy creature after all. Here inside Oblivion.

"Do you know, though? I feel like all the names you just told me are terrible. No offense. I have no idea which one of them I would have called you when I knew it. Was it all of them? But they're all just dumb jokes. Maybe none of it meant anything to you then, but just look at you now. If I were you I'd want a new one. What's something you wouldn't be embarrassed to be called twice? Or maybe even forever?"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Hybrasil is not my mother: I was born to space. Grandmother Hybrasil is more appropriate, and I might argue more respectful to begin with. Do you not agree?"

Mirror yawns. She allows it to be long, wide, and in particular loud. Communication of absolute comfort; a total lack of threat detected. The atmosphere here has put her at ease and there is nothing in the sipping of ginger tea, the talk of work, this too-short-too-plain mecha, or this casual opening volley to put tension in her nerves.

Home at last. The Gods-Smiting Whip welcomes her back eagerly with a sharper response time than she remembers from the duel with Heim Stockar. As if it saw her traipsing across the stars with some strange goddess and said to itself that it would not lose to the Smokeless Jade Fires on any front. Even the tactile response of her control panel feels better than usual. Matty and Slate have earned their special treat time, and more than that besides.

She allows herself to blink. Even throws in an indulgent stretch. Slow and luxurious. One would be forgiven for forgetting she's in a fight at all.

"Tiger pouncing, empty belly. Tiger crouching, blood on lips. Suppose you've done your reading and observation on me as well, then. Am I a cornered smuggler, pinned down in my hold? What a wonderful thought. Almost as if nothing I do here matters. How freeing~"

Her trident flashes in front of her in a series of crisp, tight thrusts. This is all the motion she offers to bat aside the volley of laser fire, and that only to avoid damaging her fresh paint job. It's a fun little puzzle she's offering for Kiriala: these attacks she has chosen as her method of damage avoidance require the planting of her feet and locking the Gods-Smiting Whip into stances that (theoretically) preclude several types of countermeasures for any follow-up attacks. In a very real sense, for the terrain she finds herself in this attempt at the so-called 'neutral' path has committed her next moves far more strictly than if she'd simply dodged to any side.

But her three active tails (One, Two, and Three today. Really, Matty?) are poised and pointed to cover her body. Any of the basic lines that could be taken to make use of the spear or the net would be met with instant, guaranteed amputation at the luckiest. The fight over before it started. What will you reveal, Kiriala? If you pounce, you ignore the threat of her tails and say that from the beginning this match was nothing to you. If you hold back, wary of her tails, you tell her you've been watching, reading, building your profile, and you're ready to play that card for the sake of tournament seeding.

But if you find the secret she's left inside this trap... well. Promises, promises, Kiriala of the ginger tea.

"Actually, I'm rather fond of the arena they've chosen for us. Seeing as this is so near to pointless for both of us, could I convince you to lie down with me, instead? You strike me as the sort who would enjoy the chance to take nap on the job. And my family would certainly appreciate my taking the opportunity to catch up on rest. I have been... neglecting the need for some time. If you understand me."

(Figure Out a Person: 7. Asking "What do you hope to get from this match?", and since this is a combat, "What do you want me to be?". Holding the third question in reserve for now]

Breathless Dead

It doesn't take a genius to understand where the places of honor are in these machines. Whatever the mysteries of their construction or their operation, cabins are meant for riding in and those seats are built for comfort. Together with their slow overland speed the only proper conclusion that can be reached about these chariots is that they are intended for luxury. To sit inside one is to be told that you are important. Beloved. Irreplaceable.

She tests these words against herself. Several people gesture for her to get inside. She shakes her head, and gestures back in turn. Rest, sisters. Rest, honored guardians. This moment is for you: the journey has been long and difficult and you must take this moment to recover your strength in comfort and repose. She has no heart for resting, and no need of it either. Sit. Sit, you fools, or we'll never get going again.

The girl climbs atop a roof, instead. Here she can challenge her footing against the smooth surface and the motion as it clings to the ribbon paths of the gods. Here she can feel the air whipping through her hair and the sting of salt on her back. Here she can smell the burning fuel and the grass and the infinite blue stretching impossibly far to one side of her. Her eye is drawn that way, to this thing that has no name inside her mind, and needs no name with all its vastness and majesty. Light reflects across the smooth yet choppy surface in patterns that delight her senses. They are well worth the pain she buys them with.

A moment like this is quiet, despite the roar of the engines and the occasional shouts of her comrades. A moment like this is solitude even though she is hardly alone, up on the roofs or in the more general sense. A moment like this is... meditation. She breathes the air and the land soothes her. She kisses the sky and the light swallows her. She feels the pain and the salt carries her up, and up, and up, and up into a thing that can only be called euphoria. And maybe that's the name of that endless blue she cannot turn away from.

Her arms fold across her chest as she rides astride her roaring steed. Her feet spread wide to either side of her as she obstinately continues standing upright where a crouch would be both more restful and help her stay on in the first place. What does she care? The idea of falling is so impossible she cannot even imagine it fully enough to fear it. And if it did happen she would simply run alongside the caravan and take back her place.

No smile passes her lips, but she is happy. This is a game. And if it is to be a game, let it be a fun one. Her legs tense like tempered blades. She swings them up into the air as such, one and two and one and two. How long can she keep her body airborne without falling off? She floats and she drifts; she is a seed in the briny breeze. She is immovable and immaculate, always calculating her trajectory with such precision that when she lands she hasn't so much as moved a centimeter relative to the vehicle she's riding atop of. The exercise sets her heart to beating, and when it beats it also soars. Her body grows loose and light, and demands she be trickier still.

And so she adds dimensions to her games: every time one of these chariots passes hers on a straightaway, she leaps from where she currently is to glide from roof to roof until she is at the front of the caravan. When she has ridden there a while she flips backwards and finds the rear again and waits for it to challenge. She is everywhere, and with everyone. She climbs higher than the hills, and gets to watch the skies in a way that none around her see. What she finds steals her heart away and fills it with the fresh call to adventure.

All she dreams of is adventure. Her mind is filled with a spark, or maybe an idea, of the sky beyond the sky and horizons she has not crossed yet. It is no longer the desire to swim in dreams and become lost that drives her forward. It is love. It is a love so pure that Aphrodite could never bear to touch it, though she has not fashioned it into a sword.

It will be many long kilometers yet before she realizes what it means. It will be countless sights beyond that before she finds the words to explain it in a way that finally quiets her. Here in this moment, she only feels the sting on her back and the stiffness of her muscles fade into nothingness.

There is no wish for oblivion in her soul. It is not adventure that makes her stretch her hand out as if to grab the next bend in the road and pull it closer to her.

And there are no scars shaped like roses for her back to bear any longer.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Miserable cretins, both of you. This is how you greet me? You neither marvel at my appearance or wonder at my methods. Why did I bother dressing up? If there's no further point in obfuscation when I decide to take a job then maybe I'll just quit working. Honestly. I should drug your water and leave the pair of you tied up in an alley. Louts. Oafs. Snoops. I hate you so much."

She says it all while continuing to hug Matty and leave reassuring strokes up one side of her neck and down the other, which combined with the absolute monotone in her voice makes it a little difficult to take her seriously. But even still, she manages to shoot Slate a look that has her mechanic wilt so suddenly that she slips off the couch.

Mirror unwraps the synthweave from her arm and tosses it in a messy pile on Slate's head. Then she picks up Matty and carries her to the little kitchen.

"Be a good kitten and sort through the fridge for me, please. You should find a whole fish wrapped in twine in the back. Assuming there's anyone at all here who's still loyal to me, in any case."

There is. Matty produces the fish with trembling hands: a small, fuzzy striped bass species that's barely enough food for a single mouth, if that mouth is not especially hungry to begin with. Mirror plucks it up and sniffs it twice while she leans against a counter and waits for her pan to get hot.

"...Wasn't bad. Considering it wasn't Nine-Tails. Reasonable contract, amusing terms. Minimal effort. I anticipate a contract offer from the Red Band in the medium term future, you have permission to accept it on my behalf if the phrasing is respectful. They have a secretary I would like to poach, given the opportunity."

She drops oil in the pan, and waits for it to sizzle. Lard follows, and she lets it melt. The fish itself she tosses in haphazardly, dragging it back and forth across the hot surface with a pair of tongs.

"Boss, don't you think you should learn how to cook... I dunno, literally anything else at some point? Or at least ask someone else to do it for you?"

"Pointless. Bad at everything else; the imposition would kill me."

"You're a bad cook?!" gasps Matty, "I can't picture you being bad at anything!"

"I develop skills that are worth developing. Overgeneralization breeds weakness."

"I, uh, see?"

"You just haven't known her long enough Matty. It'll make sense when--"

"When you're older."

"MEW!!!"

Flip the fish, continue dredging. Dry herbs thrown into the pan in three, two, one, now. Savor the sizzle. Keep the meat in motion to avoid sticking, wait for the skin to begin turning color. First sign it's done. Second sign, mouth falls open. Lift, plate. Drizzle with prepared sauce, squeeze of berry.

"I miss when we used to live with you mom. She made amazing fish. Her synthetic waterfowl was orgasmic, too."

"Times change. Mother has her own life. Don't be greedy, Slate."

"Nah, the smell just reminded me is all."

"Fair."

"Hey, what's she like? Your mom, I mean."

"She's..."

"Picture Mirror, right? Then add about thirty times as many words and make most of them about the dynamics of light refraction through blah blah blah, and there you go. She talks about other stuff, but she just adores her work. Woman's a constant stream of information, you can't shut her off."

"That sounds kinda tiring, honestly."

"Eh, she's good for Mirror."

"Slate..."

"Shut up and eat your crappy fish. Anyway yeah. She talks so much you can't get a word in without shouting. But that means Mirror doesn't have to speak. She can get everything she needs out of posture and eye contact, and the whole rest of the conversation happens without her having to do anything. Honestly that's another thing I miss about living back there. Mirror used to be a lot more... expressive. I think she fed on that energy. Now that no one's filling that function she's..."

"Mmmf."

Incorrect, Slate. If she seems less than she was, that's because she's focused on other things. Easier to speak when the consequences for doing so were so minimal. Now she has family of her own. Something that needs to be protected. Something that deserves protecting, and for far more than one day. She has goals that have leaked beyond her ability to fit them inside of even the most complicated glyphs she knows.

She is more, Slate. More than ever. And more in love with you, in all the ways she's allowed to be. And when she finally wins this tournament and gets her wish, then... then...

"Slate. Matty."

"P-please finish your fish before you say more, Mommy. I mean Mirror! Ma'am! Oh gosh!"

Smirk. Flick of a tail, long slow chew. Lascivious swallow, unnecessary lick of her chops.

"Most comfortable of the three, kitten. But not now."

"Boss?"

"Delete every piece of information we have on my opponent."

"Boss?!"

"MO--er, ah?!"

"Last chance for tendencies to be punished. Last chance to reveal weakness. Best opportunity. I fight this one blind."

"Only if you promise me one thing."

"Mm?"

"Try to win anyway. Call it data collection if you have to, just... don't get hurt posturing for Her eyes."

"Naturally, I promise."

"You d-- wait, what?"

"I said I promise. I will crush her utterly rather than risk injury. Now come. Our schedules just opened up. I want to spend my training time with my little family. Doesn't that sound nicer than anything else we might gain from preparation?"

She had not worn her dress for nothing, after all. A pair of beautiful, blushing faces is all the answer she requires.

Breathless Dead

The girl does not know why the desire to keep moving has ebbed out of her so quickly. She does not understand. Through the dry and the sting of dust she was unquenchable. Through the sharp prick of the nettles that tangled her beautiful hair and shredded her dress down to tatters she only quickened her pace. As dull aches built up into terrible pains and shivering weakness she was a creature made of iron. She was invincible.

Until she wasn't. Was a tree full of fruit all it took to keep her from the finish line? Perhaps.

She stops, and sits, and with the gesture calls for her party to rest. For a long time no one speaks. No complaints, nor thanks, nor witty remarks pass the lips of anybody assembled. The girl has eyes only for the apples on the tree. Their lustrous yellow skin holds its shine even in the fading light of the sky above. Their sour scent dances down her throat, and when one falls and bursts open the sensation is so shocking and refreshing that she gasps. It is the loudest noise she can remember making.

If there are treasures to be found, they should be kept. If there are wounds to be tended, then the best medicine is a feast. And if there is a feast to be had, then let everyone take part. Share the work and share the riches both, and never mind if you know how to cook or not. Everyone provides. And everyone eats.

Now there is strength in her legs again. She rises to her feet with the grace of a ghost as she slides over to the great tree, grandest landmark she has found in many long weeks of travel. She climbs up into its branches and sets about the task of sniffing out all the most fragrant apples she can find. She gathers them in her skirt and drops down onto the opposite side of the trunk in the only concession to modesty she can or cares to make. There is work to do, and for some reason the idea of work always loosens her standards on this front.

She has little enough to work with without touching what's left of their supplies. But there is plenty here enough to create something special. She takes sugar cane in her hands and wrings it with enough force to kill a king, a gleam in her eyes as the sticky, glistening syrup spills like lifeblood into the bowls she's confiscated for her purposes. She has to clean her palms afterward before she can properly crack open her heating pellets, but so what? Her body is far greater than most any tool she could care to name. It does not bother her to use it this way.

It's a long process to heat the sweet water into something crystalline and usable, but it's a pleasure to wait. It gives her time to hum; a tune like drum beats in her head and in her heart. It goes something like chan-barra-chan-barra-chan, though what that means she doesn't know. It lifts her heart, and that's enough. Once she has her crystals, she pauses. It does seem a waste to melt them again, but the process is essential. Without this extra step she'll never be able to make the thing she wants.

Her claws slice through the apples with ease, filling her nose and coating her tongue with the delicious sour-sweet aroma of their flesh. Twigs and nettles are good enough as skewers. Nothing wasted that way, even the painful parts have their use. She lines up speared apple chunks and she gathers them between her knuckles before plunging them deep into her re-cooling syrup. They must be held, but not still. She must be moved, but not disturbed. Gather the sugar and let it remember the shapes she taught it. Be what you were made to be.

Even carved, the apples are more beautiful than ever in their crystal cases. Like this, they will keep a long time. Like this, they can travel. Like this, there is enough for all to eat even while walking. They glitter, and to her eye it seems joyful.

But she pauses before she rejoins her friends. The girl cocks her head and sniffs the air with caution and no small degree of importance. Feasts... Feasts belong to gods. There is at least one god in particular she is sure belongs at tables full of fresh things to eat and --

No. It should be two.

She gingerly lifts the very best of her work away from the pile and carries them away from everyone. A claw slices off an extra strip of her skirt to give her something to lay them on. Something in the back of her mind itches. Want of a candle she supposes, but where that urge comes from she does not know, and it flits away as soon as she realizes it's not for her to hold onto. She offers a bow to the sugared treats.

"Apollo," she says, "Artemis. Siblings, the sun and moon. I have not forgotten your names. I offer you my treasure, what is mine to give. All I ask of you in exchange is that you do not forget mine."

The girl turns from her little shrine without waiting for an answer. She has many treasures to deliver, with a quiet nod and an anxious hope that what she's done will delight a single other soul. The smell of her work leaves her mouth watering. But in the end, she left none for herself.

Breathless Dead

She glides through the path of kings like a ghost. There is nothing for her here. There is nothing of love in that smoke, there is nothing of beauty in these crumbling monuments. The path carries her forward like an ice floe along a current, as if it too was rejecting her presence here.

There had been... something of her, in all of this, though she cannot recall ever having walked as a King. The very idea of it seems preposterous to a lifelong wanderer like her, and yet something at the corners of her heart feels the slightest tug as she passes. It pulls her neck, if nothing else, to watch the sweat on the backs of the Fallen and see the starless sky baking them like clay. It calls her to notice the crumbling and unrecognizable edifices all around her and wonder vaguely (and a little sadly) if she ever read about any of these people in a happier time.

It calls to her to watch her scout. Her scout? Her scout. Her soul, her lover. Re. Da...

Anxiety she cannot name and does not understand stabs at her every time they part in this place. Her Heart loves to wander, and the girl's own body warns her that this is a terrible place to become lost in, worse than all the others they have crossed by far. This is a place where if you stop you will never, ever leave. Forward is the only way forward, and that is that. But her Heart longs to scramble, to leap, to explore, and sometimes only with the deepest reluctance seems to feel the tug on her leash and come trudging back to make her reports.

Often she comes back with gifts. Apologies, she calls them. Dedications, the girl corrects her. The scowl is not for the sake of her wayward Heart, but for the feeling crawling up her spine that something is slipping free inside of her. Soon it might slough off and fall away, and she might not even recognize it to pick it back up. For the first time that idea scares her. For the first time she can feel the rattle in her soul that sounds and smells like sickness. But she takes these Apologies, these Dedications, one and all. She does not need to be begged to wear them, hold them, smell them, kiss them. She does it all freely, and forever. Her hair and her dress are full of the things. The weight of them is her pride.

Her pride. She feels that flicker at the base of her neck again, where it meets the shoulder. The girl's gold-and-red eyes turn and watch the shadow of Aphrodite as if he were the sun in the sky. He does not meet her gaze, but hides from her inside a cloud of impenetrable smoke. The foulest thing she has ever smelled. Her nose wrinkles with disgust, and she turns her attentions back to the sad creatures tending to the stuff he makes it from. Her pride. Her pride. Her pride.

Down this hill and into the path of kings lies the final resting place of vainglory. Here toil who, in their mightiness, took their insecurities as threats to be stamped out. So much effort, and for what? All that talent. All that work, all those lives ground into dust to raise statue after statue after statue. Empires raised and shattered while petty hearts screamed their names to the gods in the vain hope that when they passed their majesty would linger after. What did it buy them? Only one god listened.

All. All the others... abandoned them. Only Aphrodite paid them any, any heed. She closes her eyes. Pathetic. None of these people ever had names to begin with. If someone else had risen up in their place, how much more might have been done? How much greater heights could have been reached, how much more of the glass and the rain could have replaced the scorching plantation they now float through?

But she understands, at last. She reaches for the sword now sitting at her hips. Not an especially sharp blade, not a special blade, but a very pretty one. One of her favorite Dedications, of all those she now wears. The girl glances at the strange and lovely face in the blade she sometimes doesn't recognize as her own reflection. And then she lifts. It has blade enough for this.

The girl slices a single braid out of her hair, one that has sat on her head for countless ages. She tosses it down into the valley for the mighty to contest over. The expression of disdain ruins any smile she might have had forming.

But her body feels lighter than the air around her, all of a sudden. And when her Heart next asks her if it's ok to go exploring, she finds that it will be a race.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

There is a difference between compatibility and belonging. There is a difference between acquaintance and family. There is a difference between ease and comfort.

The Whispered Promise is nothing but a mercenary, after all. She is whatever you ask her to be, but never more than that. Things can't be clearer than when the true circle closes around them. This is... the same thing. The same feeling, the same connections that she craves, but turned toward a purpose she does not control. This is the moment where Smokeless Jade Fires finally bests her.

The invitation has expired. She does not belong here.

Mirror takes the grass crown on her head with due grace and dignity, and as silent as the stars. She is careful, gentle when she hands Dala Hunters over to the smirking engineer. She does not return the smile, but her touch lingers on the softness of the priestess' cheek. Her fingers trace down that neck to the mark burned into it. Her eyes linger even longer than her hand.

She turns and faces the idol of Smokeless Jade Fires. Farewell, Little Goddess. Yours is the only frame apart from her own Nine Tails she has ever been able to pilot. That has been worth the price of trusting you. Come and call on her again, if you think you can afford her a second time.

She bows deeply, with a great flourish of her left arm while her right extends out, palm to the sky. Not a gesture of Hybrasil (not even of a trickster), but a gesture Terenian princes use to woo their courtesans. She's watched all about it with Solarel. Hold the pose, three, two, one, wink.

She stands and blows a kiss before she walks away without a word.

Breathless Dead

It has become harder to rush ahead. The thrill of the journey still calls to her, and burns in all the same places with all the same insistence. But in the rain and through these hills, the going is slow. She cannot remember being dry. She cannot remember being warm. She can remember rushing headlong toward the horizon, which is why she looks so frustrated now.

It is not that her legs aren't up to the task. She has strong muscles that can carry more than her fair share of the weight. She has the will to pull herself out of the mud over and over and over again. But the party has slowed down around her, and she is obliged to circle back and make sure that everybody is keeping pace. It is dangerous to become separated in all this downpour. Rest is called for frequently. Tents are pitched, though no one seems to have thought to learn how to set them properly.

She can't remember their names. Or if they had any. It doesn't matter; she has their number and that's enough to get on by. She has a number, too. Is a number. Was a number. And a number is like a name, when you've got nothing else to use. She does the counting at every sodden campsite. First the golden haired dreamer, then the mice who cling so closely to her for protection (hers? theirs?), and then the girls she cannot help but call Sister even though none of them look alike or could possibly have been born to the same parents. Then the kindly sheep and the gregarious lion. At the Thirteenth slot she remembers to count herself, so her count doesn't fall one short and send her into panic.

Maybe that is meant to be her number. But she is sick of it. Or maybe she's just tired of the rain, it's hard to tell. Irritation builds on her in driving waves until she is permanently wearing a scowl, and nobody wants to be around her very long if they can help it (except for Re. Da. Na). She is weary of the counting, of needing to count. She is annoyed that she never remembers to start the count with herself, where it would be easiest. She is freezing and burning all at once with the need for new experiences, new food, new weather new... even if not new sights, then at least new rocks.

She's come a long way to look at rocks. They could at least be nice enough to be different rocks.

The rain does not pass. The rocks change but little. It is always slow going when you're crossing the mountains, no matter how great the need of your journey. But as the rivers form close to their paths, closing some off and opening up new ones. As the avalanches of mud and rock slide free and threaten the entire journey in a way she cannot help but find entrancing and beautiful. As the water soaks into her fur so deep that it can never come out again and the endless noise of rain is the only music her ears will ever know...

She comes at last to the buildings. To mountains that some hand has shaped. To flowers and gardens and glass covering everything, or so it seems to her. Nothing changes, really. But everything does. She is caught up in a deluge that washes her away even though it does not budge her a single centimeter. Her clothes remain soaked, but these flatter her form. Her body drips from every crevice, but the water serves to soothe the itch that's hounded her from the moment she set eyes on her plover. Not enough to douse it, but enough to content her with the pace that they are making. Forward is, after all, still forward.

But more than anything, the sound of the rain is different. As it plinks across walls and panes and the wonders of the pyramids it becomes more than just the rush of a downpour and the drumming on her aching ears. It is the sound of bells. She knows this to the very core of her heart: there's no more beautiful sound than a bell. It's enough to make her cry, though in the storm it's not a thing anybody else might notice. But she is crying just for her, and for the loveliness of this sound that soothes her body like medicine.

She is washed clean. The mud drips out of her fur and her skin, her hair smooths out enough that she can keep it out of her eyes. She lifts a hand and calls for the tents to be pitched again. Time to rest and time to count. Time to eat cold food from a can and not even mind it in the slightest.

She begins the count with herself. That's the easiest way to make sure she gets everybody, after all. And then the Dreamer, the Mice, her Sisters, the sheep...

Someone new can be Thirteen.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Why yes, of course you may have an autograph. Would anyone else like one, before she goes? There is time. Always a pleasure to meet a fan. Let us duel again sometime, and properly. Gather more and better mecha, repair the Grasp of Dishal, and test them if you care to against the Gods-Smiting Whip. Ah, this one is for your little sister, is it? What's her name? I'll sign this one with a star, just for her.

Mirror has her fun. It is not the attention from the pirates that drives her to play things up so sharply. Though their attitude is both amusing and nostalgic in the way that organizational goals crumble so quickly in the face of playtime and a chance to learn things they did not know. It is very soothing to be around Spacers again, the only cats crazy enough to have the kind of confidence that permits excitement after total defeat. They need to be, to survive living the way they do.

But they are not what brought her here, so they do not hold her attention for long after each of them passes from sight. It's Dolly who stays in her vision, and Dolly that settles inside her mind. This girl, this very soft and earnest girl, with her writhing and squealing through her sodden gags, with the way her entire body flushes with warmth when she catches this or that's pirate's eye and how even while she wriggles enough to slip free from almost any net in the galaxy she somehow keeps herself nestled safely inside of Mirror's own arms.

Dala Hunters Seven Quetzal is a jewel among jewels. She burns as hot as a campfire but is easier to carry than a sleeping kitten. Her heart is even more on display than her body, and her body is... mmm. Well. It is no wonder this little thing went and got herself kidnapped, is it? It is similarly little wonder that Smokeless Jade Fires was so desperate to have her back.

Or at least, she thought she understood this. Her fingers snap. The party ends. She steps back into the Temple-Cockpit, fully prepared to dump Dolly at the altar and slip away. Contract fulfilled, payment to be rendered later. Good luck getting home, you two. She was even excited to work out a thing or two with Valynia by way of charting her own ride home to the family that by now had noticed she'd done more than take a walk to clear her head, or even more than simply managing a better than average dinner date.

And then she watches these two, Smokeless Jade Fires and her Seven Quetzal, reunite. She feels the pulse of their hearts tugging at the connection she's wrapped around her arm. And she feels her plans disintegrate to ashes all around her. It's not a gasp, the sound she makes. Her face doesn't even twitch. As to the feelings that she leaks back into the pair? Irrelevant. She gives them nothing but water. The calmness of the river restored. Only a single sharp sniff gives her away.

Mirror steps inside the cockpit, and waves the door closed behind her. One and two and three and four. That's all the steps she needs to close space again, and each of those small and precise. The inside of Smokeless Jade's idol is not nearly so large that it can permit the freedom of more than one pilot at a time. But that is fine. It does not need to. She stoops low to scoop Dolly back into her arms, and with two fingers lifts her pretty chin to stare at the dangling body of her goddess.

"Do you see that?" she chirps, "Seven Quetzal. This. Is. The shape. Of. True. Love. These are the lengths. Your goddess will take. Just to be with you. It is not just. That I am here. She has. Suborned herself. To me. She has. Followed every command. Faultlessly. Token struggle. Just to hear. Your voice. Just to see. Your face. Just to touch. Your body."

And at this moment, Mirror touches Dolly. Long strokes through her hair, unknotting muscles that had long since clenched from the way the ropes she was wrapped up in had obligated her to stand. Or dangle, as the case may be. Her touch is soothing and medicinal. But it is familiar and possessive. She works away the ropes and she works away the ruined clothes of a sullied priestess to let her beautiful fur breathe the warm, fresh air of this safe space. No, Dolly. You do not need this. Or this. Or this. Not even these. Your goddess paid a lot for you, you realize? Let her bask in the full beauty of her treasure.

Every naked inch of you.

She holds you close. Her arm is wrapped around you as a lover's ought to be. The one with the synthweave wrapped around it. She does not use her fingers for anything more indecent than massaging at your worn out muscles. She is chaste, the Whispered Promise. But she is careful to hold the weave close to you and let your goddess have every last little brush of fur burned into her memory, and to allow her to strain and caress you in turn, if only in this desperate and straining way.

Her fingers find the brand at your neck. She clicks her tongue and brushes her thumb across it.

"I can. Fix this." she says it casually, even in spite of the clipped bursts of words that she uses to cut through the fog of overwhelming emotions when they threaten to devour her like this, "For a price. I know. The technique. But, later. Later. I have... never. Seen love like yours. And I must. Show you. Mine. In turn. Sit here. Like this. Good girl.

"Now watch. Do not blink. Dala of the Hunter Clan. Little Seven Quetzal. Beloved. Bride. Of Smokeless Jade Fires. You are. The first mortal creature. To bear witness. To my piloting technique. Burn it. Into your mind. This. Is. The power. Your goddess bought. Just to have you again. This is. What. She paid. More than. She owns. To use. The power. That will carry you. Safely. Home."

Her fingers dance across the simulated keyboard, manipulating it with ease. Commands sent, orders obeyed. Just like that. Screech your indignities into your gag, Smokeless Jade Fires, but bear them just the same. It is a gift that the Whispered Promise is giving your Bride. The three of you rocket away from the station and fly away on wings of crystal fire. She pilots you in grand spirals and plots showy courses through the asteroids, this time not so much as brushing any of them despite how recklessly close she rushes into them.

It's a gift for you, too. The trust to expose this much of her potential to the both of you. Because what you have touched her untouchable heart. She is mad with longing for something like what she's seen. But this is all the more she's capable of doing to find it.

Breathless Dead

Every second Bella spends watching the horizon makes it grow more beautiful. The grain rolls in softer and softer waves, the trees bloom in ever more brilliant colors, bees hum with a vigor that is infectious even across this infinite distance. Fruits wobble and spatter on the ground like fireworks, and the air is filled with the fragrance of ripe apples floating over grains and honeycomb. The sky is alight with a bouquet of colors so saturated and varied it could make a rainbow blush.

She feels it all surging inside her skull. The colors become deeper, the smells more luscious, the sounds clearer and brighter. More intense with every passing second until the simple act of breathing is like trying to hold a symphony inside her lungs. It would be painful, if it wasn't so beautiful. Or, no. It is this painful because it is so beautiful.

The pain becomes an itch. In her palms to start, and then her nose. Her ears. Her legs start to burn. To rest is to stop moving, and to stop moving is to allow the land to change itself in front of her rather than transforming it by her own willpower, which is called momentum. In other words, stillness is death. There is so much left to do! There is so much left to see! She must move, she must move, she must move! This girl called Bella must move, so she can see what comes after! The horizon is endless: where lies Okeanos? The question burns inside her like a virus.

She does what is natural. She safeguards the voyage. Cutting loose, burning free all by herself does not even occur to her. These are her people. Whoever they are, they belong to her ship. So they'll succeed or fail together. She made a promise, after all. She's certain of that much. She does not perform the labor, but oversees the taking of inventory. Her voice is high and clear on the winds, directing eyes, directing ears, directing hands. She is full to bursting with the knowledge of how to do a thousand menial tasks as quickly as can be, and she shares them all freely.

She does not transfer the supplies herself, because it is so important for someone with clear eyes to be watching the bigger picture. It feels good to stay in motion. Her red eye maps ten thousand paths for every set of feet to trod and her mind makes sense of them before she so much as registers it. These things are as natural as breathing, so she must put this eye on the path where it does not get bogged down by specifics. Her feet long to move, so she paces and follows along the plover line.

Only the itch in her palm remains. And there is nothing to be done for that until her Sister comes to her carrying the sword. The one with the edge that means safety. The true form of love. She takes it in her aching hand for the very first time, and when she swings it she can feel a hundred different forms click into place inside of her. A dozen others fall away, but they drift on the breeze and out of sight before she can register them. And what of it? She is more, not less.

Her orders happen alongside sparring, now. She duels a single woman with golden hair (whose name is Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. Re. De. Naaaaaaaa) up and down the line, daring to spare her glances for the ones who are working to prepare their vehicles for their last and most glorious leg of the journey, even now issuing advice that sounds indistinguishable from orders.

But the sound of sword clashing against sword echoes through her words. Their dance is swift and brilliant. Graceful as the dawn and worthy of ten thousand apples, even be they made of gold and meant only for the Gods. She is teaching herself. She is testing herself. She is holding onto old strengths at the cost of older names. Names cannot fuel plovers. Names cannot cross mountains and ford rivers. Names cannot finish the long march and finally gaze as one upon the ocean. Not without the skills to guide them. And these people, this bunch of strangers and softies have maybe a round dozen among their number who will bother to hold onto these things with her.

She makes her sacrifices for the sake of others. Her sword rings loud and bright, the most beautiful music for the most beautiful place anyone has ever been. There is one person who makes all of this worth it. One name she holds tight to attach it to a face.

Redana. Fight her, Redana. Teach her, Redana. Dance with her, Redana. And kiss her, Redana. Redana. Redana. Redana. You alone have nothing to fear. She promised you. That you would never hurt again. And those words are as visible as a constellation inside her eyes.