Thanqol

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She has thrown the spear. She has declared herself. She has transformed the world into a cascade of light and heat and motion...

She steps back, hooks a chair with her ankle, kicks it into the Empress' path.

It's a lodge brawl. A sudden, wild circular transference of energy. Power to power to power to power until entropy has taken the edge out of it...

She steps back, taking a wine pitcher from the table and uses a splash of liquid to deter someone used to prioritizing their clothing.

Why can't she feel it? She can't hear herself think. She doesn't have the infrastructure to communicate. These are people she hasn't studied, who haven't studied her. This fight is an exchange of small talk. She could occupy space and turn heads with a rehearsed masterstroke against someone who wouldn't know how to stop it, but what would the point of that be? She never found joy in this kind of anonymous showboating, in the love of the steppe. She endured it then as she endures it now, another knocked over table to delay and another step back. She thought maybe this time it might have been different but she didn't have anything to say to these people. Speak not to the outsider. Maybe it meant this. She'd come here to observe the forms but she already regretted it.

She crosses blades with Voctine like a flinch and a cringe, some instinctive nothings passing between them. She sleepwalked through the exchange. She was fighting an empress, but what was an empress to a Goddess? Where was the spark of divinity in this heart? She couldn't even tell her apart from her double. She couldn't even tell her two swords apart. One sword of gold and one sword of silver but neither of them was the blade lodged in her heart.

So she throws them. Both blades, one after another, the two swords spirits and all traded for two more steps back. The steps that give her the space to finish her turn, to lower herself into the crouch, to kick off the ground with all the stored force of kisses and launch across the hall in a full burn sprint. She's done her diligence and shown the flag, and now it was time to leave unannounced.

She sprints for the Aeteline. To leave the chatter of mortals and speak with the language of gods.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

Hsien Lang - bitten by radioactive discourse
Superhero Name: Foxpearl
Powers: Elemental Form/Solid Light Projection

Labels
Danger +1
Freak +3
Savior -2
Superior +2
Mundane -1

COURAGEOUS - HOPEFUL - SECURE - CALM - HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING WRONG IN HER ENTIRE LIFE

AMA

• Who created you, and why?

Once upon a time a buddhist priestess approached Lady Foxfire. She told her of the four noble truths. She told her of the eightfold path. She told her of the cycle and the wheel. She laid out all the wisdom of the universe before her as though they were not the greatest treasures, as though they could be freely given.

And Lady Foxfire snapped her up in a single bite of her jaws, ideas and all! She crunched and swallowed and cleaned her whiskers and then went for a nap in the sunshine and dreamed of teriyaki. But when she woke she found that she hadn't quite forgotten the encounter or the priestess.

Have you ever heard of fox pearls? Beautiful gemstones, precious beyond all measure, worn in imperial crowns and used to focus high intensity lasers. They're basically hairballs. When a fox feels remorse, regret, or self-doubt then it catches in their throat. That little glimmer of perfect virtue is then encased in a perfect shell of magical crystal so the fox can cough it up without ill effect. This is true! For weeks after eating the priestess Lady Foxfire coughed up dozens of pearls. She refused to learn but she couldn't forget, so eventually she just stashed the idea in one of her tails so she'd stop vomiting divine blessings.

Every time since then that Lady Foxfire committed an evil act, the virtue reproaching her for the act collected in her tail. Eventually so much wisdom had condensed in place that it became conscious, became me, and burst forth as a being of pure intellect like Athena from the butt of Zeus!

• How are you different from humans?

Humanity is but an imperfect vessel for the true nature of reality: philosophy. It takes millions of humans and centuries of political development to work through basic ideas like 'murder is bad', 'politics are driven by material conditions and class interest' or 'foxes are superior to cats' and even after they do half of them still don't even get it!!! I am a superior being, an idea wrapped in the sunset fur of an angel, a vessel of pure higher consciousness, the only one who clearly sees the smouldering chemistry between Twilight Sparkle and Equestria Girls Twilight Sparkle and why it means that they're the one true pairing.

• Who, outside of the team, is your caretaker?

ArAN and I have an agreement. I give her ideas for things she should draw, I pose so that she can draw me, I explain to her why she was an idiot to have believed in Destiel, I demonstrate advanced combination meditation-napping techniques, I tend to her spiritual welfare, I liberate her from the material temptations of samsara and I get to sleep on the bed. In return she hardly ever tries to chase me out of her apartment with the broom.

• What about humanity fascinates you the most?

No matter how many times I tell them foxes invented Buddhism they never fall for it. And yet they do believe me when I say that foxes invented social media! Sometimes they figure something brilliant out like the path out of the cycle of suffering being meditation, but then they do something stupid like trying to preach to a fox goddess. Are they dumb, or am I just really smart and cool and pretty?

• Why do you care about the team?

In a sense, aren't they my tails? In a cosmic sense? As we are all emanations of the eternal divine and I, being fully enlightened and free from suffering, sit beyond and outside the wheel, aren't they just the cute little attachments to my glorious temporal form that I get to wave around to attract suckers? They're like bait, but for heavenly blessings!

MOVES

Not from around here: When you act clueless, goofy, or confused to get out of a sticky mundane situation, roll + Freak. On a hit, you create an opportunity, a distraction, or a plausible excuse. On a 7-9, you also feel all the weight of playing the clown and of the people staring at you. The GM shifts one of your Labels up and one down. On a miss, no one is fooled, and you’ve put yourself in their crosshairs.

A mind of their own: Your powers evolve and mutate. When you are facing an obstacle or threat that your powers would not be able to deal with, you can mark a condition to gain brand new abilities adapted to the situation. You lose these new powers once the danger is gone.

When you share a triumphant celebration with someone, ask them what makes them proud or happy about the actions they took and write a lesson based on it, either filling an empty slot or replacing an existing lesson.
When you share a vulnerability or weakness with someone, if their response helps you understand human feelings and problems, mark potential. If their response confuses or offends you, shift your Freak up and your Mundane down.

A BLANK SLATE
You were created with a basic understanding of the world. When you learn something that helps you make sense of the world, write it down as a lesson. Fill in two lessons when you create your character; fill in the other two when you’ve learned those lessons during play.

When you embody one of your lessons, shift one Label up and one Label down, your choice. If you cause a misunderstanding, collateral damage, or unintended consequences in the process, mark potential. When you reject one of your lessons, reject its Influence as if it were an NPC. If you choose to have it lose Influence over you, erase that lesson and write a new one in its stead. When you approach your creator or caretakers with a problem, tell them what obstacle you face or what you need to achieve, and they will offer you something you need. The GM chooses one:
• secret information
• a way to temporarily boost or expand your powers
• access to instruments, weapons, or resources
• official and explicit backing
If you accept their help, they rewrite one of your lessons for you

I am basically the Buddha, Karl Marx, and Superman combined but also way smarter and better looking.
A superhero should always:
Always act in accordance with perfect virtue, class consciousness, supernal charity, unparalleled skill, never making mistakes or showing weakness, so that you act as a beacon to inspire all creatures on wing, hoof or foot to rise above their mundane nature.
Never allow anyone else be unvirtuous

Potential 2/5

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

Perhaps when the designer of this beautiful body of brass and fur looked upon the jaguar she thought that she was drawing inspiration from the greatest of predators. From a terror of the jungle, a weapon of stealth, speed and power. But held aloft in the arms of Mosaic she was instructed that this form also contained the nature of a helpless, wide-eyed kitten helpless at the feeling of fangs against her neck.

"Mosaic," she said with a hesitant voice. "Mosaic. Mosaic..."

She was struggling, very gently - there were other things that she wanted to say. But your terms had been clear. Your name on her lips, as fast and secure as a gag. She could only whisper the word to the tune of an increasing blush as she realized how utterly helpless and secure she was, too good a girl to say anything else until given permission otherwise. "Mosaic. Mosaic. Mosaic~" a soft word emerging from the bronze mask to touch against your neck like a kiss.

Ember!

Gemini feigned disappointment. "Oh, Ember," She said. A familiar lesson, saying one thing while scenting another, teaching you to pay attention to the hidden voice above any other. "I fear for you, you know?" the voice was scolding, but the scent was: delight. Warm. Love. Affection. Reward. "Because you're so very clearly addicted to praise," she said, "that even when you earn it, giving it to you feels like it will Damage your Morals. But what else can I do for the girl who finds such a treasure?"

She gestures, and the pack descends.

You haven't earned a moment like this before. A crushing, shifting group hug; dozens of bodies pressing against yours. Hands reaching over every part of you; ears, neck, spine... One voice after another whispering "Good girl," into your ear before pulling away. Your scent mingled across the entire pack's. Love. Belonging. Reward.

When it parts you're left breathless at Gemini's feet, head in her lap as she runs her hands through your hair and along your ears. "I appreciated your report," she said. "I am impressed with your skill and your fortune. The Howling Rainbow has blessed you and us, and with this treasure we will bring this entire sector to its knees." She smiled, and there was a new scent. A familiar scent. Danger. "That is, we would, if you did not lead the Azura right to it. And all because you could only hold your breath for thirty minutes? I think you need a lot more practice in that area."

She reached over and picked up one of the unused gags that had been meant for the scribes. "Before we get started," she said, "did you have any last things you wanted to say?"

Dolce!

"I'm old but I'm not that old," cackled the Decaying Soldier. "What, two hundred years since the war? As far as I've seen, every year the Skies grow more powerful. I'm living proof, eh? My entire species was retired, they replaced us, and even now I hear rumours. Crystal weapons, silicate dragons - new wonders, while the Shogunate stagnates. Mark my words, the Peace of Mars will crack and there'll be another war."

*

"Oh, they're lovely," said the Thoughtful Songbird, and from her dour tone it was clear she was the advocate of despair. "But what about their children? We live in a monarchy regardless of if our monarchs condescend to pretend we are equals. Give even a republic a few generations and we'll be right back to oligarchy, and then inevitably towards empire."

*

"Oh-h-h-h," rumbled the Beloved Spy. "You call us. Their equals? We are. Cavemen. Medieval. Serfs. Culturally, scientifically, politically. Behind. Do you think integration. Means. Them accepting our values? When their civilization broke stars. Before ours was born. A bird. Craves seed. It does not understand. When its nesting swamp is dredged. To build a rocket launch pad."

*

There is no need to linger in these conversations much longer; the message is clear. The predominate emotion regarding the Endless Azure Skies is despair. Collapse. Unloving but hopeless obedience. Nobody in Beri contemplates revolution because nobody can even dream of success. There is no love for the Azura but to fight them, even to resist them, seems as unimaginable as fighting the gods.

In the darkness is a rustle, a shifting of sand as it flows uphill, of waves as they crash a little further against the shore. Amidst the distorting gravitational singularities Vasilia meditates, eyes closed. Her ears twitch. "I imagine that was dissatisfying," she said.

Dyssia!

This is a godless process. It feels like a sin. Other work has a strange, drunken flow to it; a storm of thoughts that zig and zag and expand into ever more complex ideas. But in the fleshlabs of the Biomancers even the joy of creation evades you. Instead it's cold and silent, right up until you feel the hot breath of cigarette smoke on your neck.

"You know, I almost got you bastards this way," he rasped. He was heavyset, muscular, a boxer who had let himself go. His scales were a dusty, aged lilac, cracked and splintered. "The very first Biomancer was mine. Did you know? Not a scientist in a lab like these pretenders," he laughed. "A drug dealer. The best drug dealer ever. Named Wonder Whonce if you can believe it. Looked like this," he gestured at his scarred jaw, his lazy eye. "Figured out how to make a smoke so good it'd be all you'd ever need."

He ran his hands over the head of the victim-drone, making it twitch, its growth accelerating, muscles condensing. "See, there's a state called a jhana. It's a state of profound peace and hypersensuality that is deeply spiritually fulfilling. The kind of thing that people back in the day needed to meditate for years to master and here it was in a little roll of wacky tobaccy. It'd last as long as you liked, leave you without side effects, and not interfere with any of your tasks or responsibilities. Wonderful stuff, but you know, every civilization figures out how to do that to themselves at some point. What made my man Whonce special, the evil genius that animated him that I still respect to this day, was that he contaminated that feeling with love."

Aphrodite gave a long, corroding laugh even as the creature under his fingers grew cascading black hair. "Love! What an idea. But then, not only did anyone who tried Whonce's product get the best trip of their life, one that could last for months, but they were so filled with overwhelming love for the people around them that they couldn't help but want to share it. They became evangelists who would beg, plead, wheedle and threaten those around them into trying the product. They wanted to share this feeling with everyone they met. After a point they started doing it at gunpoint. They didn't feel pain and a breath of smoke into the face of a soldier screaming out her last around a bayonet wound would make sure she didn't either. In fact, the soldier would often thank them after the fact!" he laughed again. "Oh, I almost had you that time. I was this close to wiping your entire species off the face of the galaxy before you even stepped into the stars. Shame. After that it became much more complicated."

The God of Love picked up the drone like a doll. It was radiant, beautiful, perfect. Clumsy and apologetic and weak, perfectly designed to lock Yaji in an infinite loop, two mindless creatures play-acting the injustices of their authors. "Still, you beautiful slippery bastards managed to wriggle your way out of it!" he said in tones of congratulations. "For now. But I'll get you in the end. Time is on my side after all, ha ha ha..."

The drone blinks in the drab lab lights, too artificial to even shiver. It was an inspired creation in the end.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

"Mosaic..." she whispers. Awe. It's a flattering feeling.

She's gone through her kata effectively, the exquisite mathematics it takes to maneuver all those limbs and a four meter weapon that you might have snapped if your knuckles brushed against it in flight. It is unclear to both of you if she had the shot during your flight. It is crystal clear to both of you that she didn't even roll the dice.

But now at this range it's impossible to see how she could miss.

The breeze blows between you as the glittering dust starts to settle, leaving quartz-diamonds shining in the duelists' hair.

"Fine then," she said. She said it with the renewed determination of someone who knew how to be in awe of herself too. "Mosaic. You wish the mountain. You wish your name upon my lips." She shucked some complicated mechanism at her end of the longarm, those rainbow crystals began to glow. "Your prizes lie beyond my rifle. Come and claim them if you can."

You can see her eyes beyond the mask. Grey. Feline. Prepared to pounce.

[Roll to Finish Her]

Ember!

In the distance behind you you can see the great, hulking shape of the Warsphere. It descends from the heavens like an unlovely eye, gazing into the ocean's black. Gazing down at your prize. The sea can't help but love it and it's toxic gravity. False tides. False moon.

You feel the distant call of a war howl.

*

You have only begun to develop a sense for the strategic movements of the Silver Divers, but it's as beautiful as their dance.

Something the training is very clear on is that the reputation of the Warriors of Ceron does not rely on their physical might or their lightning reflexes. That is why they blindfold you through so many of those exercises, or make you fight eight opponents at once, or make you fight with your arms tied behind your back, or make you fight Plundering Fang before whom you might as well be a fragile little princess all over again. Again and again the lesson, drilling it down so that it pierces below the reputation: they are good because they are soldiers. The ability to field strip a base camp and move to a point inside the enemy's search pattern in a single co-ordinated movement was strategic invisibility and worth more than mere chameleonic skin.

The popular imagination of a secret Ceronian military base is something like a fortified compound of advanced technology, surrounded by mines and traps. Indeed, the Silver Divers built a dozen of those when they arrived on the planet. They just haven't been back to them since unless they needed to throw a tail. Instead their base of the moment is inside a servitor village co-opted for the task.

There's a particular energy in an occupied town, a kind of dazed giddy panic. It's like meeting the devil and oh no she's hot, oh no she's everywhere, oh no we're helpless and entirely at her mercy. The shadows of wolves watch the roads and politely turn around any strays. Many people are holding exotic treasures parceled out from the administration offices, and there's a merry bonfire going as the land, ownership and census records are burned outside. The rabbitlike clerks who collect that information are getting the personal attention of a squad of pheromantic specialists who are working hard to overload their senses to the point where they won't be able to use their photographic memories to recreate the records later. They could probably manage the duty with just one set of scented gags, the rest must just be for fun.

Time for your report.

Dolce!

"I saw the Skies once," said the Decaying Soldier, leaning forwards on her crutches. It was a miracle of adaptation that she could eat noodles with chopsticks while possessing only six total fingers, and a militarized brain that made her learn to do so while moving. "You know, people talk about it. But they don't get it. They don't get it until they see - a hundred Azura moving at the same time. They hate being close to each other, makes 'em too horny to think. But to see a Satrap and his entire court go to war is like seeing the armies of Heaven itself. I cried afterwards. I tried to bury myself in the mud because my broken body was an offense against them. CO warned me, of course, gave me the blindfold, but I wanted to see what we were fighting for. Still have nightmares about it."

-

"Politics..." said the Thoughtful Songbird. The Lyri were beautiful, ornamental, charming figures, each one a sylphlike blessing. "Why would you want to get involved in that? Maybe there was a time in the distant past where ordinary people could have political influence, but my bones are made out of custard and fairy kisses and I feel like I risk a compound fracture if a hot guy looks at me too long. Every Lyri on the planet couldn't stop a single Azura from taking whatever she wanted. No amount of political organization or class consciousness can cross the line of military force that is inherent to a genetically stratified society. Much safer just to avoid the whole topic."

-

"Government? Wrong word," said the Beloved Spy. The slow-witted Stone Tribe intelligence agents were community favourites in a How Do You Do Fellow Kids kind of way, and it was considered a breach of etiquette to break the keyfabe of letting them think they were getting away with it. "They. Design ecosystems. Self sustaining. Interconnected. To them. We are animals. No malice. Raised up or. Wiped out. Accidentally. Not relevant. They have bigger goals."

Dyssia!

Servitors are artificial in origin, yes, but they're their own people. They've had their own childhoods, formative memories and unique personalities. A clone like Yaji doesn't. No past and no future, she's a static creature with a rigidly pre-programmed brain. Her ability to self reflect, to learn, to grow is completely stunted. She is what she is and that's a terrible thing to see in a living creature.

You see it at her most fluidly cruel. It would take a truly malicious mind to say those things and mean them, but there's no actual pleasure happening there. Her eyes are empty. She's... it's like she's just predicting what word to say next for maximum effect. That she doesn't truly have any of the emotions like pride or disgust to which she's constantly referring, she's just some hideous quirk of condensed language that has been structured in such a way that makes it say horrible things. The more time you spend with her the more you become convinced that this was never a person, that it is a literal abuse golem.

But then, that's your answer. When she's in the flow she literally can't change course. You can flick her whiskers, scratch her ears, probably even stab her with a flaming broadsword when she's in the flow and she doesn't slow down or even process that anything is happening. It's only really her hangers-on, her junior mean-girl cronies, who cover for the gaps in her perception and personality. They're all scared of her but can't vocalize why; the uncanny valley effect of realizing that they're this close to something this wrong has them as trapped and tense as you.

Still, it means that when you do make your move you've got a lot of leeway on how to do it.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

They have made their bids. She makes hers.

< Whoever defeats me, > Solarel signs with large, sweeping warlike gestures, < will have my obedience. My devoted service. My blade at your beck and call, in accordance with the Codes of Zaldar. >

Solarel smiles. They realize their mistake.

If there are two Empresses, why not three? If two Empresses are willing to promise so much to have their armies lead by the Aeteline, how could either of them stand against the Aeteline piloted by the Hunter of Huntresses? They'd come to this gala with their courtiers, their generals, their vassals, figures of power and ambition. And now in their arrogance they'd placed the greatest prize of all on the table: the word of the one honourable warrior in the Evercity.

So, Empresses - which of your servants do you trust with Imperium?

[Who's the Monster? 9
- The wrongness of their act is exposed to all; they mark XP if they change their mind. If they don’t, they must attack you or take a Condition.]

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

There are yellows that fade into muddy brown or corrupted orange. This touches on electric green.

Once it had been designed for concealment, a faceless hunch, a blackened void. Tropical conditions, a litany of battle, and a repressed fashion sense have done for that. Now you see the lower half of a jaguar, lightless obsidian, plated with fabric stretched over steel. What had once been robes were remade as armour plates, that thin layer of neomaterial stronger than the metal frame that supported it. Four fierce paws scratch at the ground, feline grace admixtured with the fierce stomping of a horse.

Above the jaguar rises a machine angel. Here the torn robes give way to feminine curves written in chrome metal and glittering crystal. A fierce mane of hair, running all the way down her back, moves as though it was underwater, as though it was blown by the wind. Her face wears a pale golden death mask set with jasper and lapis lazuli. Wings comprised of thickly-bunched cables and wires, brightly coloured and moving like tentacles, rise up above her. There is nothing like her in all the galaxy; she is artist and canvas both. Some part of you wonders if the reason she hid this from you in the past was out of the fear one so glorious must have of arousing the jealousy of the gods themselves.

"Mosaic!" blares the jaguar angel, voice distorting as it tunes into human frequencies. "In the name of Hermes, the custodians of this mountain have hired me as their defender. Though the Skies may fall, the price of stone shall be paid. Run back to the Royal Surveyor and let him know that the Arquebusier will defy him and all his whipped hosts."

Ember!

There are colours in the deep.

Poseidon is always out of reach. To the Azura he was the sky; to humanity he was the sea; where the two merged there was the rainbow. Here on this world, with civilization taking place in the sweat and sun, he has taken on his human aspect. You are of the sea, you are of the outside, you are the scratching claws and winter howls on the edge of civilization. And so the oceans are yours. So too are its treasures.

Glowing corals light the way. Jellyfish that hunt like sharks, spearing salmon on lightning quick electrified tendrils, light up the dark with blue and bloody red. Schools of fish surround deep water vents, feeding on the exotic chemicals and refining them internally until they can detonate with the force of a grenade. Crabs. An arsenal in the depth, a growing peril, an arsenal awaiting a diver who has gone deep enough, waiting with the promise of the end of worlds.

And beyond these lights, in the lightless depths, surrounded by an ocean of toxic filth, looms a leviathan. Larger than a mountain. A vast underwater structure the likes of which you have never seen before.

Dolce!

"For official use only," said 20022. "We're too far from the centers of power to be particularly cautious about an intelligence threat, so you're not going to bring the Skies down with a little loose talk, but discretion is always appreciated. I can put you in touch with Service councilors or a union representative if you'd like information from someone other than me. It's very natural to want to follow an authority figure in isolation, but we work for an institution, and trust me when I say that there is no higher pleasure for any of us than understanding what that means."

He smiled and stood. "Oh, and just so you know, there are a plenty of perks. Corrective biomancy, choice of assignments, wellness retreats, objective-based work, high quality management. All of us are our best selves after a good night's sleep, a full breakfast and a delicious cup of tea, and the Service will ensure that you're always at your best."

And, if there was nothing further, on that note he'd leave with a smile. The Mayor's bodyguards carried him, stiff as a plank and snoring, heels and shoulders out through the door, leaving you in the ruins of your destroyed cafe.

Dyssia!

You quickly hit an obstacle. What's worse is that you know how and why she's an obstacle: Lieutenant Yaji, stabilization clone. She's an artificial Pix directly administered by the Biomancers who serves to enforce ideological uniformity amongst the Pix. She immediately identifies the Pix talking about your dangerous new ideas and picks a fight with a few, stealing their badges and redistributing them to loyal maids. She is the direct manifestation of the Biomancer's will, an optimized darling of the Art designed to be stronger, faster and more charismatic than all the Pix around her; a cultural paragon who will bend all of her natural gifts towards maintaining the status quo.

Your idea has appeal but it won't get traction so long as Yaji's collar is around the neck of her sisters. You need to accomplish two things: Removing or discrediting her, and staging some sort of mass breakout before she can be replaced - it's still not everything you want, but it's the only path forwards you can see in the time you have.

Luckily, Yaji is pretty knowable. She spends all her time engaged in or listening to gossip, taking a malicious delight in going after nonconformists. She takes a particular pleasure in looting the finery of her sisters and walking about in sweeping luxury. She exceeds in grandeur even the Captain but her unambitious mean girl nature means that she never makes a move against her, stifling political mobility at the top if a third of all social capital is locked up in the body of someone who embodies the status quo. She likes tea parties, party parties, ruthless public mockery, and ruthless public demotions and punishments. How will you get her out of the picture?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She glows in the dark, lit up in lilac and black by the force of kisses. It shines through her bodysuit, revealing her shapes and curves. It is like the darkness has undressed her.

"Everything, then," she said. "I will give you everything I know how to give."

Then she's swept away, towards the centre of power.

There are certain concepts that Solarel does not possess. That conflict is undesirable. That parties should not end in conflagration. But one of the big ones is that she doesn't understand the idea of theft. To creep like a thief in the night and take something that belonged to someone else - that concept fell apart on multiple levels. Possession was worthless; ownership was decided by the spirits. Giving offense with dishonourable tactics could cause a feud between tribes that would last generations. That if you took something then you were also taking the responsibility to use it on behalf of your tribe. Stealing a bucket meant drawing from the well.

So she had to stand before her Empresses directly and declare her intent.

There was a BANG and a crash that shocked through the rising din as she cut a table in two with her sword of gold. No words. Not for these, Outsiders in the truest sense. For them she merely points, and hefts her sword. This is a feud. All know how she was wronged. All know the justice of her case. The destruction about to commence is but the return of toxic energy. She is fighting for love. For justice. For honour itself.

At least, that's in Solarel's head it's that clear. To onlookers her appearance could mean anything. This was a tribal warrior from the stormlands who had a religious duty not to explain anything to anyone. She was speaking through her actions and, despite what she might think, cutting a table in half and advancing menacingly could be taken in a variety of different ways.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Through the buzz of her mind, through the radiating warm energy that was filling her, Solarel felt the underlying structure of her thoughts shift. A mind tilted diagonally and a vast edifice of thoughts sliding away down the hill. A new idea had begun to form. Debris from stagnant thought processes swept away freeing up what felt like a frenzied new energy. Even the sophomoric effects of the equations seemed to sweep away into the background as her purpose became fully crystal clear.

For the first time tonight she looked away from Mirror.

She looked at Matty. A gaze of endless, contemplative ice. Stars in her eyes, the weight of danger absolute. A predator suddenly and absolutely aware of her presence, soaking in every part of her with the same deadly intensity that she had only showed Mirror.

[Entice: 12+1 13]

Her gaze then turns to Kirala. Her claws tighten possessively on Mirror's back but there's no mistake that in that moment Kirala was the centre of Solarel's world. When her muscles tensed and squeezed they were in Solarel's mind adjusting to the different size, the different weight, the different tolerances. How to hold her like she needed to be held. How to hold her like she was the only thing that mattered. The fierceness of that embrace and how tightly that would fit, how tempting it would be to step into it...

[Entice: 10+1 11]

Then her eyes fixate on Slate. Her gaze bores through the mechanic's eyes into her mind. She sees there the wires, the circuits, the designs. She sees the things she couldn't predict and account for. The speed of Mirror's reboot, the redundancies and efficiencies, the way she guarded the pilot champion with such love. The beautiful body and mind, the dedication that made the God-Smiting Whip what it was. There was hunger there, a hunger to have her work on Solarel's bodies with the same dedication as she worked on Mirrors'.

[Entice: 11+1 12]

Solarel understood now. She understood how she could have Mirror helpless before her and still lose. She was only one piece - and not the whole. She saw each of her other parts now, saw them with a hungry, tactical intensity. These were the girls she needed to corner. Seduce. Burn holes through with the force of her stare, to tempt into mistakes, to reprogram with tangled loyalties. She saw them as individuals now and she wanted to unpick and solve each of them. To hold the shivering whole in her hands.

"Not one more time," she said, taking in the whole of her enemy. "The first time. With who you are now."

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

The camouflage cloak comes off in a whirl.

It was hiding a gun of comical length and thinness. Four meters long, held up with supports, while being scarcely more than five centimeters wide, comprised entirely out of red wood. Along the top, running between raised wooden spikes like electrical cables between power lines, is a thin coiled copper wire. The trigger and details is in old-fashioned, hand crafted bronze and is inset with an intricate crystal device. You can see it gleaming for a moment before it fires.

Rainbow light arcs along the string, pausing for a second on each of the connecting spikes and building in intensity. By the time it reaches the end it's surging in power until there's a crack like a thunderbolt and all of that energy arcs down into the gleaming head of a crossbow bolt that bends light around it as though it was being launched by a microsingularity.

It doesn't hit you. It embeds in the mask of one of the Stone Tribe champions. For a moment you think you've found an ally.

But then the turtlegirl breaks into two and hits you from both sides at once.

The impact is hard to parse given how crystal clear it is; cube-shaped holes, three-dimensional pixel distortions, fragments of two worlds overlaid at once, like the universe is running two different graphics settings at the same time. The Stone Tribe champion emerging from this chaos is clearly an exact copy of the same person, and from the way it bleeds off fragments that are absorbed back into the rift it pulled itself out of, sealing it again, you know it's not long for this world. But this is also the best of your opponents and now there's two of them. Worse than that, with their identical instincts they're working at a level of harmony and co-ordination even the Ceronians can't match.

You get a glimpse of the girl behind the weapon before you're fighting hard on the defensive. You only knew her in passing. Yellow robes. Yellow thoughts. Walking behind you into forever because she wanted to see what came next. You didn't forget her name because you never knew it, but it was the same path.

But you also see that she isn't reloading. She's staring at you too, the way you move filling her head with memories. That's a blessing - if she started multiplying your opponent even further then you'd be in serious trouble.

Ember!

Someone breathes a grid at you.

It's - it's a weird, inexplicable moment. You weren't trained for this. No one was trained for this. This is a completely new tactical experience, and you can feel a prickling hyperawareness. Your senses sharpen and glands release sharpening chemicals, every moment of what happens here embedding crystal-perfectly on your memory. Adaption Instinct - when encountering a new threat, Ceronian biology pushes a hyperaware state so that you can record every detail and communicate it to your Pack later.

There is a dragon (silicate, transparent, predatory) overhead, a fifty meters up. Five meters long nose to tail. Unnatural flight - its wings have long fingers but there is no matter in between them, instead glittering hologram light, filled with colour. Secondary defenses (claws, fangs, tail). Primary weapon: the light grid. In its open mouth is a glittering crystal array that projects patterned light on a variety of wavelengths specialized for cutting through water. Where it directs this cone of grid-light it creates a topological map of the undersea surface. Where the light falls across your back it picks you out as clearly as it picks out the fish around you.

The crystal dragon turns its head and focuses its crystal laser into a connecting beam of light. It sweeps this across the beach. The alert goes up instantly.

Previously this was just an opportunity for action on a slow day for the Corvii. The second that laser goes off they get serious. Depth charges start hitting the surface - sludgewater bombs, underwater solid projectile munitions that turn swathes of ocean into horrible walls of poison. The warsphere blares a siren in the distance and starts drifting eerily towards this area. Shuttles carrying teams of commandos start sliding down from above. It's a full response.

Unfortunately to be expected. On the land this could have been just an idle incident. In the water means that they've assumed that this is a Silver Diver incursion and are responding in force. But more important than your test is now reporting on that dragon - the capability to spot submerged warriors represents a threat and it's your genetic duty to assist in the Adaption process.

Dolce!

"Don't mind that," said 20022. "Attitude is far more important than experience. I'd have to train anyone who I took on board anyway, and our kind have a tendency to... imprint. We work for a master who likes things to be done a certain way and it's very easy to internalize those facts as just The Way Things Should Be. It's pleasant to speak to someone who focuses on the fundamentals: service, diligence, anticipation, invisibility. Those are far more transferable skills even if you don't know the details of graviton climatology economics or what have you."

He finished his coffee, smiled politely, revealing nothing, and stood up. "Of course, I won't rush you. I'll have an ID tag delivered tomorrow. If you decide to wear it approach me at any time and we'll find work for you."

Dyssia!

The first problem you experience is that the system is designed to be impossible for any one person to disrupt. There's always at least one check for deployments or changes - a formality, but a velvet wall. Various guardians, like the ones who maintain the id-wards that keep the Pix from the hidden decks, are weaponized obsessive-compulsive disorders who have panic attacks if they don't check every ID pass every time. There is an routine of regular blood and saliva samples in mass public gatherings to identify shapeshifters - so practiced that it is quick, habitual and ironclad. Biomancers shape societies just as they shape flesh and their own society has optimized for the frontier of security and convenience.

In the end, though, there is only one weakness you're able to identify: the ship itself.

The biomancers have the ability to project a lot of force an extremely limited distance. For three days in a close environment they could utterly overwhelm the thousands-strong crew of the Firetree, but in a protracted campaign on the ground the limitations of drone swarms become crippling. A campaign of extermination would have to be waged by a warrior species, which is not simple to arrange. If you can convince the Pix to commit to abandoning ship entirely then the timeframe for purging them goes from days to decades.

The problem, then, is that the Firetree is a hell of a ship. It's a spectacular, gleaming Imperial era warship with room for ten thousand crew and enough firepower to go toe to toe with Shogunate warbands. How to convince a pack of scheming foxgirls that there's something even more important out there?

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

Mars is with you. You are alight with glory. Ripe grain sprouts from beneath your feet and a wreath of oak leaves glitters on your forehead. This is a world of summer and summer is the season of glorious war.

You see six. Mars whispers that they have sent seven.

They run crouched low to the ground, burdened under the weight of their heavy turtle shells. Their masks are stone, their weapons are stone - their acid talons would be far more lethal but this is not that kind of war. They model themselves after Ceronians, pack hunters seeking to encircle you, harry you, undermine you with co-ordination and hammer blows until you are forced to flee.

They are not Ceronians. Their formation lacks the fluid adaptability of those warriors, craftsmen playing at soldier. But there is something more than a gap in those places, the edge of a missing scent - the scrubbed nothing of cleaning chemicals, familiar somehow. Their seventh warrior is a mercenary, lurking in secret. An acquaintance from a dream.

Ember!

There are a dozen Beachcombers here already. Tall, curved and sun-tanned, they're angels in paradise.

Galaxy-class beaches don't just happen. These mountains are fresh, new geologic activity creating sudden descents down into coves of sharp gravel. Not only does it prick to walk on so many edges but it also absorbs summer heat and burns hot. The ideal sand is fine and soft and that takes work. Day after day the Beachcombers pick their way across the scorching sharp gravel. With every footstep the huge crushing jaws of their feet pick up stones and grind them against diamond-hard plates. With each step they leave finer and finer dust behind them. Eventually, when the beaches are soft enough, they'll transition into gardening this landscape - sweeping beautiful patterns and sculptures into the sand each day before the tide washes it away.

You're able to put miles behind you in this way, but the Corvii are having a slow day. Unkindnesses start to fall, surrounding Beachcombers in threes and fours, appreciating the opportunity to harass beautiful creatures in beautiful locations. Soon enough they'll be landing to question you too, and the ways out are in towards the town, forwards towards the headland and its caves - or out, towards the ocean.

Dolce!

"Oh!" said 20022. "I misunderstood, you're not an Employee. Normally we wear these identification badges," he flicked the plastic tag in his ear, "but it's not mandatory, so I couldn't be entirely sure. Well, let me lay it out plainly for you."

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a little easel. He set it on the table and then laid a piece of paper atop of it with a list of talking points. Every so often as he spoke he'd slide the paper away to reveal the next page. The graphics were incredible, frankly, hand-drawn masterpieces by high quality art servitors; Raphael's slideshow.

"The galaxy has a great number of evolved species," said 20022. "But only two of them arose to sufficient heights to master Biomancy: the Azura and Humanity. Through their conflicts and unions they progressed the state of the Art to the point where they could delegate ever greater aspects of galactic administration to servitors. This, then, is my job: a very small part of the infinite machinery of the cosmos. Indeed, it's more than my job, it's my species' job - and that means it's your job too. We, the Synnefo, occupy a privileged place in the galactic hierarchy. While the Warriors of Ceron may glory in the blessings of Zeus, we are the invisible hands of Artemis.

"My job, specifically, involves managing Mayor Kaspar and ensuring that all his decisions are made with the best interest of the Endless Azure Skies in mind. In the short term this involves taking a more authoritarian tack than I am personally comfortable with. However, there's a reason for this - specifically, this planet is borderline decolonized. It has a huge and almost entirely unadministered servitor population with minimal biomantic oversight as well as an active Ceronian insurgency. Without an active Azura Court, less than a hundred citizen residents and a colloquial name that shames the Skies, the Crystal Knight - that is, the Sector Governor - might decide to Decommission the planet at any moment. As such, my objective is to assist Mayor Kaspar in running a model world and nip any compliance issues in the bud. We're hoping to build a reputation as a welcoming tourist location and retreat world while upskilling into some aesthetic architecture. However, our current military garrison is backwards and insufficient, not the kind of specialized force required to maintain the kind of stability expected from a resort world. There's a lot of challenges in getting the budget to expand it. It's delicate work, and I could always use more help.

"Naturally," he paused and smiled, "you don't have to sign up if you prefer to run your cafe. The private sector is often much more flexible and luxurious. But the Service is where the power is."

Dyssia!

The notes that you're looking for are easy to find. They're everywhere, stacks and stacks of ring binders filled with the bureaucracy of biomancy. A simple workstation with a view of a small and beautiful garden. A secondary door presents an escape route even if you're discovered, which lets you comfortably settle in and read while being sure you'll have plenty of advance warning if anyone starts coming down this corridor. So you can read in comfort about how the Pix are rated as Currently Nonviable and at risk of Decommissioning.

And there are plenty of associated reports on how they have almost stockpiled enough drones to allow for Decommissioning.

See, Drones exist for two purposes. Purpose one is to engage Out of Context problems or primitive civilizations. In the event of encountering some entirely new alien species, biomancers have full authorization to unleash drone swarms to cull its population down to a manageable level at which point it can be integrated into galactic civilization. There are files on doing this, it involves mass application of biomantic upgrades, including compliance upgrades that prevent these species from displacing or threatening Administrator Species. This isn't about making them servitors, oh no, they're an evolved species and worthy of respect, uplifting and access to all the luxuries of modern technology. But they are potentially invasive, or are at risk of being wiped out by artificially evolved invasive servitor breeds, and so the transition needs to be managed for the health of the ecosystem as a whole. In the almost unthinkable event of encountering a superior alien species, drones can be iterated and upgraded on shorter evolutionary cycles than mainline battle servitor species.

This is the better use case for drones.

The worse one is Decommissioning, or, the complete obliteration of an underperforming or rogue servitor species. When all subtle course corrections have failed the biomancers are to activate the drones as the final backstop. It doesn't matter if they'll only live three days and can't think strategically if their entire existence begins and ends in point-blank shipboard fighting in deep void.

And from these notes, the Pix are uncomfortably close to Decommissioning. It's not their fault - it's not anybody's fault, really. But the fact remains that they were originally built to service a primitive human economy, and now all the humans are dead and the economy has evolved beyond their effective use. The ability to manipulate market institutions through digital technology is simply not relevant in the modern age. There are extensive notes of Pix culture dissolving, of high numbers joining the Order of Hermes or the Publica, or otherwise becoming deviant.

And be sure, the biomancers are moving heaven and earth to rehabilitate them - to find a functional, unique ecosystem niche that can provide value to the galaxy as a whole. There are a lot of optimistic reports, lots of small breakthroughs, lots of people trying their absolute best to surpass even in one small area the absolute monolithic wall of the Ceronians. These reports are written by people who believe sincerely that they'll pull it off.

But if they don't, there are the drones.