Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly's doing her best. Her very, very best. She's handling this one solo, since the goddess is a sweaty heap of mewing in her bed, and she's got to get this engineer out of their collective hair. Even so, she looks frazzled, flushed, a bit of a mess, a figure of fun for the cult to snicker about. Oh, how lovely it must be to get the goddess's attention, so on and so forth.

But the question was asked, and so Dolly stops and considers it properly, and something swims forth from the river of thought. Like any good Hybrasilian, she snatches it up immediately, lays it open, and feasts.

"What can you tell me about Mirror?" She blinks, slow, comfortable, despite her dishevelment. It's intentionally vulnerable, disarming. "Since you work with her. For her. With her?" A cock of the head: a question underneath the question. "After all, we are standing together. I thought I knew her, but the more I look, the more confusing she gets..."

Breathless Dead

There is no sound out here, not in the way that Ember can use. So the dance plays out in silence, in three dimensions, amidst the debris. Her heart rate normalizes as she opens up her belt pouch, slips a ration cube free, feels more than sees the tongue wrap around it, black and white on white, and it vanishes into that mouth full of inward-pointing teeth. The vast, membranous wings beat with exaggerated care, keeping the voidhorse in place.

Another cube, between forefinger and thumb; another offering. She drifts underneath, trails her fingers gently along its neck. This is a thing of sleek muscle. There is a scar against its shoulder, just before the wing structure. The slow wingbeat threatens to dislodge her; she clings like one of the newly hatched, and clambers her way under the stomach. Before it can roll into a ball and try to get more, she is working her way up, onto the back, behind the wings, and she tosses the third cube towards the ship.

There is no fear in her heart, just serenity, just admiration, just awe. No one ever told her about creatures like this. No one told her how much beauty there could be in between the stars, too.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“ACK! EEK! YEE!! DOLLLYYYYYY DO SOMETHINGGGGG—“

”Um, erm, is that, do you really—“

“DOLLLLLYYYYY HELP THAHAHAHATH I’M NOT EVEN OUT OF THE SYHIHISTEM DOLLLLLLYYYYY—“

"I, I mean, you’re sure you really— oh, here you go, ah, wait, hold on, that’s her—“

“AUUUUUUUUUHGH DOLLLLYYYYY WHY WOULD YOU GIVE HER THE WREHEHEHENCHHHHHHHHH BETRAYAL AND CALUMNY AND WOE IS ME TO SEE THIS DAY WHEN YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—“

"Have you, um, tried maybe just dis, dis, disentangling yourself? I’m still wearing my glove and you could just—“

“SHE’S IN MYHYHY BUFFFFERRRRRSSSS DOLLLLLLYYYYYYY I’M STUUUUUUUCKKKKKHHHH”

The mighty and powerful goddess writhes, doubles over, feet in the air, uselessly kicking, hands over her face as anguished giggles and squeaks burst out of her, with only one increasingly flustered witness to her agony, her dark night of the soul, her hideous torment. This is an impossible feeling, and really, Dolly should be the one feeling it, but shunting it over to her requires a level of fine control in a mind that is being flooded with an unfamiliar set of mechanics tinkering with her idol-body’s functions. And besides, it would be… unworthy. That’s what makes her hesitate when she almost thinks straight.

"Dampening clamps? What, um, what do those, well, I suppose they dampen, but— yes, you’re right that it would be catastrophic if she moved, but—“

It’s incredibly wildly unfair that her own weave is being used against her like this. Her sleek bob sticks to her forehead and cheeks as her legs are folded back and her arms lock in place. She can’t even double over now, not with the phantom rope between her wrists and ankles.

“DOLLLLLYYYYY WHYHYHYHYHY AAAAAAAA SHE’S A SADIST A SPY THIS IS ALL PART OF HER SCHEMES WASN’T SHE SATISFIED WITH PILOTING ME LIKE A DEPRAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAALLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYY”

"She’s, I’m, are you sure, I— well, yes, I suppose you’ve got everything on site already, and— oh, I, I didn’t, read, what she— and we do owe you, it’s just, um—“

Dolly glances guiltily at the cackling goddess arching her back, flexing her feet, incoherent and helpless given the level of meddling that Slate is innocently performing.

“And what do you— oh, that’s, are you sure you should— well, no, I’m not an engineer, and, yes, we do want the upgrades, it’s so sweet of you to do, but—“

“DHHHHLLLLLHHHYYY GMMM HMMM GRRRHMMM NNNLLK MMMMHH— MMMMMFFFF!!! UUULLLLEEEEEE!!!”

"I, uh, I, I think, the goddess, wants this done, as quickly as possible, so, so, um, how can I— oh, by, by sitting over there? And? Oh, I see, that, yes, I understand, and, um, eep, yes! Right away, ma’am!”

BETRAYAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL

“YEEEEHH GHHHH BBFFFFK MMN— MEEHEEEHEEEFFFF!!! NNNNNNNFFFFFHHH!!!”

Dolly reaches out, sitting on a bench, and awkwardly pats her goddess’s writhing form. She whispers, low and hoarse. “I, she’s really intense, and… at least nobody can, um, see, you?” Her heart is throbbing, she’s going to sweat straight through this top, and her legs might as well be made of a high-carbon polymer. She knows. She absolutely knows.

Jade’s going to be on a vengeful warpath, and there’s one target who’s going to fucking get it once Slate and her team are done. The thought of having Jade inflict holy vengeance upon her is leaving her lightheaded and giddy. Or maybe that’s just feedback from Jade, who is sounding increasingly lightheaded and giddy as she rolls and writhes around, yowling with laughter into increasingly snug muffling.

UNDIGNIFIEEEEDDDDDD

“ahreee!! —ree!! mnnnghm!! mmm!!! ——!!!!”

Dolly bites her lip, does her best not to stare at the goddess glaring up at her through a mess of cobalt bangs, folds her hands in her lap, and softly vibrates into a new plane of existence, one where her goddess isn’t getting worked over by an almost certainly innocent band of overzealous engineers, wondering if she can ever get away with occasionally having Nine Forests do something like this depending on how Jade is feeling afterwards, wishing that she was wired up fully in the cockpit during this, considering if Jade could shunt all the feedback her way or whether they’d just end up sweaty and wriggling together making the temple echo with their moans just like when Mirror—

An engineer sets a plug into place firmly, hears an indecent little noise barely over the sound of power tools, and glances back over her shoulder at the high priestess, who has her face in her hands and is doubled over making little squeaks.

oh okay okay so that. when she. sometimes when she. okay. that. wow. neat! neat!! really neat!!! incredible!!!

“I am! I’m! I’ll just! Be! In our! Room!!!” Dolly pants, shivering with the shared burst of feedback, and scoops Jade up into her arms before, shaky-legged, fleeing, clinging her groaning wife to her chest.

Dolly’s going to fucking get it. Eventually. Once the remodel’sssssszzzzfuckkkkkkk—

NOBODY CAN EVER KNOW OR THEIR REPUTATION WILL BE RUIIIIIIIINEEEEDDDDDD.

…even more than it already is, thank you, Jade, for, the dancing, though, only, Mirror’s team? Knows? For now? And hopefully, not, just belatedly, considering, the Red Band, ever? Or?? They might??? Try to set her up with an encore, and—

“MMMMP!!!”
"MEEEP!!!”

Breathless Dead

Nostrils seal. The jaw clamps shut. Secondary oxygenation begins. Her skin grows stiff, her body hair lying flat and dense. Her heartrate plummets from the frantic drumbeat of survival, causing Ember to feel light-headed, blurring consciousness. She blinks through tears like diamonds and drifts helplessly in the current.

What else could she do? She doesn't have any propulsion, doesn't have a signal flare, is a rounding error in size. Around her is the detritus of her exit, the hole they tore in the ship's side, the powdered rubble and shattered signifiers of Beri mingling with slagged plates of external armor and drifting clouds of chemical afterburn. But they are not lying still; there is turbulence, disruption in the space between, ripples on the face of the sea. Too much noise to spot her, her alone, in all the grand wreck of battle.

She could survive for a long time, out here, but if she is not found, if Mosaic does not fish her out and scold her for getting herself frosted all over, then eventually she will drown; she will close her eyes and her powerful heart will simply stop beating. She will linger here forever. That is, unless Polychromatikí pays attention to her and draws her along into a gravity well far off, barely alive, stranded on some farflung planet. (He is known to do this. Some lost souls even survive orbital reentry.)

Assuming that she is not fished out by Mosaic. Or by an ambitious Corvii looking to have leverage in their escape. Or hunted. The void is beautiful, but it is not (despite the name) empty. There are monsters here, too. Great Void Leviathans, Eaters of Worlds, and things which ride the solar currents with great thin wings and gaping mouths.

Was that a flicker of movement? It flashes silver out of sight. She has no way to pivot, now that it (whatever it is) is in her blindspot. With the fingers of an old woman, Ember painfully curls her fingers around the hilt of her knife, ready to defend herself from something much, much worse than a crab.

Poseidon, Horsefather, Master of Movement, Knower of the Unknown, she thinks to herself, as loudly as she can. I am your creature, too. My scales shine, my colors warn, my movements are as fluid as the tidal rush. Be with me, here, now. Do not forget me.

Breathless Dead

If Ember were a princess, pampered, innocent, and fond of holographic films, she might think of this thing as being made out of deaths. Everything about it suggests that a hero would miraculously get by unscathed, and that she, not being a hero, would not. She would be so distracted by seeing all the possible deaths approaching her that she would be unable to block them all, and then the sword would flick her away, or the skirt would lop her head off neatly, or she would be yanked up into the air and flung down an impossible height, and then she would burst into a cloud of startled sparrows and rats. That would be it. No one can fight a monster like this and win.

Ember does not think about death. She is Ceronian. She thinks about how to fend off the very next death. Each one, in turn, over and over, all for one purpose: to live a little longer. To see Mosaic come back for her with the Azura in her arms. Or to see her sisters bounding close, bearing weighted nets, because the only way to win is to stop it from fighting. So there's no room for thoughts that aren't about staying alive. No thoughts about what dying looks like unless it's to keep her alive. No admission that this is impossible and she will die, because then how can she live?

She continues to fight with everything to hand. Plates. Doors. Alleyways. You cannot fight something like this with your sword, you have to put your faith in the world. She smashes a barrel of wine and lets it flow down steps, forces the Armatii to clamber onto a rooftop to continue chasing her. Because, yes, it is a chase. That is the shape of the nightmare: a chase through jumbled, half-familiar streets where she used to pretend to be nothing more than an innocent milkmaid, or a day laborer with her hat pulled over her ears, or a shadow dressed in shadows. A place that she had learned so that the pack would learn with her, but also a place that she had learned because it was Mosaic's. A place that she had learned, in the end, because it was beautiful. And now all the pieces are here, but rearranged, randomized, turned sinister, and everything that comes to hand is a new attempt to buy another ten seconds of being Ember. Everything, no matter who it once belonged to, or what it meant to them, or how incongruous it might be for it to be within reach. Beri itself will be hollow before Ember lets herself die and no longer be in the same world as Mosaic, as the Silver Divers, as Beri's survivors, as the Plousios itself seen both as a wonder and as a ruin.

No thought. No time. No sentiment. Only life. Only life.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Of course it is. It's both: the highest confidence and the thrill of possibly losing. It's the statement. The implication. The refusal to admit that defeat, that being touched without permission, is even an option at all. The growl in the throat at the thought of waddling up to the Red Band in a body that is built for defense, that admits fear and recognition of their capabilities, and the thought of dancing through missiles and cannon fire in weightless space, of being the stealthy huntress that the goddess deserves, of showing the Red Band what it feels like to be ambushed unfairly, of having to rely on Jade completely for victory, and the knowledge that if either of them failed they'd end up in the hands of a jilted pirate, and the very threat gets her pulse racing, and because, now, backing down would mean weakness in the face of an ally, would mean acknowledging the trickster's cunning, would mean losing.

"That is the kind of body we desire," Dolly manages to say without melting into the cushion. "One where there is no room for failure. We know the stakes, um, ma'am, and... we want to prove that she, that we, can still win. That we can pick when and where to fight, now that we're not in a tournament. I believe in her."

"And I, in you."

"Also," Dolly blurts out, leaning forward as much as she can, "ferns. Embossed? I just think ferns would be a lovely motif."

Breathless Dead

Ceron! Ceron! Ceron!

But it's not Ceron that provides Ember's tactics here. No. It's stories. Half-remembered fragments of myth. Bright excitement is in her eyes as she gives the order: rear ranks, cords and scavenging. Anything that can clack together. Instruments, found in cabinets and stands. Horns, if you can get them. The clay tiles, the fractured pavement, the flutes and whistles and drumsticks that brought the people of Beri joy. Quickly, now: every moment wasted is another awful slash across someone's face, a crumpling shield, and a moment where the Knight might fall.

"Company," Ember yells, beginning to swing a cord with two clay tiles at either end, clacking ratatatat, ratatatat, ratatatat, "ROAR!"

The cacophony is almost deafening, almost a solid thing, interspersed with howling as a reverberating bass line, drilling into the heads of the Armatii. Stymphalia, Stymphalia! Deep in your heart, you know this: that this is a thunderstorm, this is a predator, this is a disruption in the air, this is no more thinking, this is dismay. The Daughters of Ceron still communicate as a roiling mass of scents below--

No, rising, too. Leaping off rooftops, tossing up lassos, digging pearl-handled knives into caught legs, dragging down these monsters of the air down into the phalanx like ants swarming over a broken-winged sparrow. There is blood, and much of it comes from bloodied mouths, deep-pierced breasts, ligament-torn limbs, but there are still more, still more, still more, and the pack works together, after all, wounded being pulled away, caught as they fall, but these monstrous alpha predators all descend alone and writhing.

Ember leaps, still swinging her castanets, her knife in her other hand, and when she lands it's one swinging around the throat and the other right in the spine between the thrashing wings. Mosaic, the Silver Divers cannot, will not follow: you must continue alone. This is knife-work, hate-work, a roiling mass that threatens to drive your own ears through your skull. So run. Run, while the Daughters of Ceron raise a din so loud that it might just crack the tiles beneath their feet.

[Overcome: 7.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"This is our body," Dolly says, as if it is the most simple thing in the world. "It doesn't need to be a machine made for winning fights, it needs to be a machine that moves when we move, that runs silent, that can... do... things." Her ears droop a little bit, and she looks bashfully off into the distance, trying to avoid looking at either the idol or the engineer. "Things. Like building. Or breaking. Or chasing. Or hunting."

The thought of the chase makes Jade purr. She sits on the back of Dolly's chair, drapes her legs down, runs her fingers through her priestess's scalp. "Yes. Good girl. We need this to be a Huntress. A Huntress of Hybrasil. No one will see us coming, and no one will be able to evade us."

"Speed," Dolly says, trying not to let her eyes cross. "Speed, and, and stealth, and something that will let us, more powerful catches, disabling and not destroying, cutting out comms, like, with Angela, and..."

"And something that will be the equal of the Red Band," Jade trills. "Yes. Now that will be a hunt worthy of me, won't it, Dolly? And I'm sure that we can put their plunder away to better uses, but the glory, the victory, and..." She pulls Dolly's head back with one hand over her mouth. "And the danger~"

There's no such thing as too much victory. She's beaten the Red Band once, and now she can make sure that victory is complete, over and over again. And the thought of facing them is making Dolly's heart beat in her chest like a delicious little rabbit. What a good, loyal, beautiful girl she is.

She pushes Dolly's head back towards Slate, but not before stealing a hungry little kiss, her thighs squeezing possessively.

Breathless Dead

There are, in the end, three reasons that Ember does not follow Mosaic as a shadow, does not bound out of the water and vigorously shake herself dry, does not chase after the Savior of Beri.

The first is that Mosaic can self-evidently take care of herself. She tamed the pack! She threw a town! She is going to dismantle anything in her path and she doesn't need Ember getting in the way of targeted, focused destruction, a path being torn straight to wherever Dyssia might be languishing. The second is that Ember's the one that the pack is following, the alpha-in-potential, and if she abandons the battle in the drowned decks, so will her sisters.

The third is that in her heart, her battle-instinct knows that her task is to draw attention away from her lover, the Queen, and scatter the enemy's cognition into shards. So to the work, then. The pack fights in sudden knots, three to every one, choosing exactly where they want to concentrate their strength. Ceron. Ceron. Ceron!

Soon enough the Corvii are fleeing the waters. Good. The pack tears through the ship's underbelly, damaging what they can, venting pipes into the water, exposing delicate mechanisms to the salt, and then, oh, and then...

And then they are a dozen cells, moving through corridors slick with water, howls echoing and reverberating through the veins of the Azura's weapon. Where scent won't work for communication, the howling will. This is no longer their ship, those void-hardened blackbirds, this is a hunting ground of the Daughters of Ceron. Isolate. Flush them out. Seize prizes. Once past the feeble attempts to reform lines and set up defenses, they'll be in the guts.

So many prizes. So little time. Pick out the best ones, sisters.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"She was a hunting model," Dolly says, a bit dreamily. One thumb rubs the other as she looks up at the body which has defined her lover since her birth. "Originally. Speed, stealth, comms. It was meant to pair with jackals, and when they birthed the goddess, they thought they were making a jackal weave. It's a terrible model for this, isn't it?"

The laugh bursts out of her like a knife-toothed fish. "That's awful! But it's true? I shouldn't have... but you know it, too, don't you? We should have had something that had firepower, given how important that is for these fights, but she's so stubborn when it comes to this." Her tail baps longingly against one ankle. "I should be able to get Forests to send you some of our specs, but I don't really know much about that sort of thing, how much engine power one of these frames has against another one, and Jade always said that she'd provide the motiffff."

Her ears flick up. Her eyes glance to the side. She settles back in her seat, hands in her lap, makes a shaky little biscuit.

"It's a Gen96 Lifuens, Fifth House, Cloud Aspected. Do you think you can remember that, dearest?" Smokeless Jade Fires is wearing an oversized jacket, a pair of striped tights, and jade-rimmed sunglasses. This is the entirety of what she has chosen. Her thumb rubs against Dolly's jawline, and her teeth are numerous as she watches her silly little bride struggle to keep her composure. "Gen96. Lifuens. Fifth House. Cloud. Aspected."

"It'saGen96LifuensFifthHouseClouded," Dolly blurts out, then takes a deep breath- then squeaks. "AsPECted! Cloud Aspected!!"

Jade turns the key and rests the padlock between Dolly's palms. "There we go. Good thing I picked a kitten with brains and beauty. Now, try not to squirm too much. Whatever would Whispered Promise's engineer think if she knew how much of a feast for the eyes you are right now, Dancer of the Sacred Pole, Seductress of the Faithful, Little Miss Stuffswell?"

"It's so funny that you think it looks like a dancer though because that's how Jade trained me to be good at piloting her the way that she wanted me to and after the um the performance you remember because you were there obviously well it's one of the votes for what we do next and it's not like anywhere near fighting the Red Band or building a temple but it's just so funny that it, and you, and pointing out?" She doesn't break eye contact, though her ear does a little proximity twitch. "I suppose! That's meaning something? Anyway! Do you have questions? More questions? Yes? Maybe? I can. Think? About the answers??"