Alexa!
There is, of course, ritual to be done. No technological matter or medical practice would ever be attempted without first seeking the blessing of the gods. With Hermes, though, rituals are of a different character.
The favour of other gods can be clearly seen, their commands heard, their punishments made clear. But Hermes is absent in a way that none of the others ever are, even distant Demeter. Outside the Order devoted to him his shrines are minor, his cults disfavoured, his domain of travel, communication and change neglected in this dark and stagnant galactic age. The Magi of the Order of Hermes hold that this means that the rituals required to obtain the favour of Hermes must be correspondingly more subtle and advanced; the Coherent have instead gravitated towards an interpretation that these rituals should be celebrations. Any excuse for drinking and dancing, perhaps! But just the same, there is also room made for a sermon.
"Evidence currently suggests," said a Coherent organizer, standing atop a pile of boxes at the end of the small gathering. "That Hermes does not wish to be found. I know! The Magi will tell you that the clues he's left in his wake make his implicit guidance clear, blah blah, but I am unconvinced. What I think is that Hermes is undergoing changes himself. He's wrapped himself in a chrysalis and none of us can pierce his shell. So if Hermes is changing behind a barrier of godsilk we're not going to be able to punch through and invade his privacy, nor should we! What we are going to do is follow him. Not with our legs! Not with our brains! But with our actions! What could be more foolish than trying to cling to someone else's metamorphosis? What could be more inspirational than learning that metamorphosis is possible?
"Today we're celebrating Alexa," he said, gesturing at you from the pulpit. "Who is today following for the first time in the footsteps of the Saffron Lord. As with Hermes, what she wants to change and why she wants to change it is none of our business unless she cares to tell us, Vapin," the organizer points out one member of the crowd in particular, to general laughter. "But we're here to support her, inspire her, and show her what is possible. So - show off! Set an example! It's hard to know what you want if you never realized it was an option!"
There's a general cheer, a round of libations and toasting, and almost immediately thereafter the organizer's message is taken to heart and several flashy fights break out. A saffron curtain through to the medical ward awaits whenever you choose to go through it.
Vasilia!
"Hmm. Not without dissection," said Iskarot, rummaging through your cupboards for cutlery. "The Gods appreciate scrap. Ruins. Shells. Husks of ruined things can tell profound stories, if you know the primordial rituals. Bone cast into fire cracks along patterns of destiny. Work swiftly enough and a host's motive force does not have to expire with their physical form."
The bowl of coleslaw impacts on the table heavily, followed by a random assortment of corkscrews, chopsticks, forks and mixing spoons. Given how Iskarot provides himself with a single regular spoon, he evidently understands the concept of eating with the correct utensil, he just isn't making any assumptions about what you eat with.
"Your lack of clarity on this topic is enviable," Iskarot said abruptly. "Mongrel breeding is the source of humanity's power. Congratulations."
XIII!
The sun burns violet. In places, the city does too.
No one seems concerned with the blaze that engulfs the distant towers, licking from its graceful heights at the base of a mighty stonework orb. A strange gleaming network of spheres hang in the sky, alight with energy, and you can see visibly how the wind is pulled through them and sent in the direction of the blaze, making sure those flames and that ash do not flow closer in this direction. An old Azura, drab of scale, pulls the strange avine horse he rides to a halt to look at the distant blaze with the weary look of a man watching a sunset.
A solitary azura woman, drab but for a small scattering of brighter blue scales around her face like freckles, sweeps the streets. She's pushing broken glass about, sorting it into piles and moving on. The ground glass is two feet deep in places. The cthonic towers above and the spectacular floating spheres had windows once but each of these is broken and all of that glass is on the ground. This must have happened some time ago, for the trail of glass-piles goes on as far as the eye can see and the Azura maiden does not seem any closer to finishing her Sisyphean task. As far as you can see she is the only one at work. There is a trancelike precision to her movements, a flow-state as deep as the rushing river.
There is one of those here too - a massive flowing body of water through the center of the city, criss-crossed with bridges. Upon some of the bridges Azura warriors, with spectacular feathered plumed helmets, faceless bone-white armour and orbiting moons of gravity-stones, await at the center. No one crosses these bridges and you sense instinctively that a terrible fight awaits you should you try. Some Azura prefer to clamber down onto the rough black sand and swim across the fast-flowing water than take their chances with these silent sentinels.
Banners hang from many buildings, bedecked with swirling circular symbols broken into layers and lines and colours - circles within circles within circles, overlapping and creating curved spaces where they intersect. The meaning of these is unknowable; they're not words in the Azura's language but they definitely have some kind of meaning, not least because one in five Azura wears a symbol of this style but unique design on their clothing somewhere.
The streets, even when they are cleaned of glass, are quiet and deserted. Not the teeming masses of Tellus who live cheek to jowl, the Azura are strangely spread out and solitary creatures, and even when they do pass at least a meter of empty street hangs between them. The smell of freshly warmed bread meanders through the paths of the street. A baker wearing some sort of armour eerily similar to those haunting bridge-warriors sets out massive racks of food, the vast majority of which goes unsold - and yet she bakes more.
Oh, there is power here Bella. Unbelievable power and grandeur that exceeds Tellus for design, artistry and grace. But it, too, is scarred. It is scarred so deeply and profoundly it makes what people there are here, people who move through the apocalyptic ruins of their civilization with silent and peaceful grace seem almost like ghosts. Vignette by vignette you come to see the Endless Azure Skies as both more and less than you were taught from Tellus. Their windows have shattered and their buildings have broken and their population has vanished - in every aspect, they have collapsed - but it has not stopped them at all. This is not a civilization locked in a stasis penitentiary. They are still pressing on, making new history with each passing day, unperturbed by their ruin.
It is not that Tellus is meaningless here. Your Auspex discerns that many of these scars are from Tellus' ships, still unrepaired centuries later. It also suggests that many are from later conflicts, civil wars. Tellus seems like a civilization caught between the ticks of a stopped clock, whereas the Azura have - for better and for worse - never stopped moving forwards.
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