Nuju Metru

IC: Nihi recognized the frail Dasaka, too, now that she got a look at her: this was the Dasaka that Soraya had been approaching at the party just before the former Rora had entered the Dragon Hall. The frail Dasaka's presence at the party, the way she repeatedly and familiarly named the new Rora of Kentoku, and her reference to her mother at a time like this all but confirmed to Nihi that she faced Yumiwa's princess sister. She hardly batted an eye at her realization; the proximity to royal blood no longer held any wonder for Nihi, and her opinion of the upper caste had drastically changed after the events of the party. But Desdemona was not just a member of the elite in this moment, for she had recently lost what may have been the dearest person in her life. Nihi could empathize with that pain better than most. "I'm sure your mother wasn't disappointed in you," Nihi said. "And I'm sure she will love your poem."

IC: It was a very old tradition to launch poem-boats after someone had died. Although Nihi assumed that the higher castes expected much more elaborate and expensive funerary rites than the one she was about to perform, she was certain that she had to free the Rora's spirit from herself, even if it were via humble poem-boat, as quickly as possible. Hesitation was the greatest dishonor the dead could receive. If the Chojo's - now Empress’s; there was a strange thought - party last night had been indicative of the way the wealthy celebrated (celebrating life was, after all, not too different from celebrating death), then the Rora would likely not be freed from the souls of those supposedly closest to her until a suitable theme had been chosen for the event, or a new ice sculpture had been carved. Nihi was glad she had not received an invitation to the inevitable grand funeral ceremony, because it saved her from having to decline one. She found the idea of the poem-boat to be much more satisfactory than any grand ceremony could have been. The poem-boat was a common, quiet, and respectful grief. It was simple; therefore pure. It was inexpensive; therefore within the means of even the lowliest Saihoko. It was a labor, albeit a small one; therefore meaningful. The act of the poem-boat – trawling the floor of one's heart for words, making the precise folds of the boat as perfectly as possible, and choosing the best spot to set it adrift at sea – held soft dignity that to Nihi better befit the memory of her former ruler than any conglomeration of two-faced nobles. She had never really known the Rora, so perhaps Nihi had misjudged her, but based on the minutes she'd spent in the Empress' presence – replayed frenetically again and again in Nihi's memory, always ending with a discrete impression of emptiness in the Rora's eyes, more terrifying even than the gaping maw that had become her chest – Nihi believed that the Rora would have appreciated her gesture. Sitting on the low end of the pier, which overhung Sado's limited beach at about the height of a Dashi, Nihi was beginning the last fold of her poem-boat. First she lined the corner of the page up where it needed to go; then, with tremendous care, she flattened the arc of the paper until a clean line held the corner in its place. She took a moment to examine her handiwork and, satisfied by her crisp creation, set it carefully down on the pier so that she could hop off the boardwalk without risking crinkling it. Nihi's feet sunk a little into the sand when she landed, reminding her of the trek up the beach of Mata Nui. She would be headed back there soon, if the Choj- if the Rora kept her promise. If it wasn't for her accumulated exhaustion - in which her grief, disgust, fear, and cynicism were indistinguishable from bodily tiredness - Nihi would have anticipated her voyage on the Chiisai Ryuu with more exhilaration. It was, after all, what she'd wanted this whole time... wasn't it? Nihi reached behind her and took her boat from the hard wooden surface of the dock. Bearing it gently in her cupped hands, she made her way along the short beachhead, the ocean breeze making the tail of her only white skirt snap at her side like a mourning flag. Nihi wasn't the only one on the beach this morning; news of the Rora's assassination had run with the speed of the wind around Sado, and a few others had also already built poem-boats to set adrift. By midday, the beach would doubtless be choked with Dasaka who sought to pay their respects, too; but for now, there were no more than a dozen others out in the grey morning air with her. As she progressed down the beach, Nihi walked by many of them: a lithe, gorgeous Dasaka with an amethyst pendant around her neck knelt elegantly to set her boat into the water; a rough Saihoko fisherwoman blew lovingly on the sail of her boat to launch it; a familiar Datsue, trailed by two Dashi Shadows, waded with her back to Nihi solemnly into the ocean, holding her boat straight in front of her; a Menti warrior pressed her forehead into the wet sand as her written words drifted further to sea. When she drew closer, Nihi recognized this Menti: it was Saru, her companion from the first expedition to Mata Nui. Nihi did not want to break the spell of Saru’s prostration, and didn’t feel like saying hello anyway, so she continued without saying a word. Arriving at an open stretch of beach, distantly between Saru and a frail-looking Dasaka with large eyes and dark armor who was fixatedly folding her own boat, Nihi approached the ocean and, keeping her boat elevated in one hand, lowered herself to a sitting position where the broken waves, edged with foam, lapped at her feet. She turned her poem-boat over in her fingers three times, and then placed it between her feet. The next dead wave that rolled up to her caught the boat, and tugged it away towards the horizon. Nihi watched her poem-boat bob over the peak of an oncoming swell, then meander further and further away from the Kentoku Archipelago. Nihi was not a poet, but she’d written as eloquent a poem as she’d been able. It would be good enough.

Surprise!

IC: The shock of the mental screech from moments before was completely forgotten by everyone – Nihi absolutely included – at the appearance of the Rora. It was a rare instance for even the highest caste of Sado courtiers to bask in the Empress’ company; for a mere Menti warrior like Nihi, just seeing the Rora – indeed, being in the same (albeit huge) room as her – was an exceedingly rare instance. Although the latest chapter of her life had been filled with unexpected, unearned, and perhaps undesirable encounters with larger-than-life figures, never had Nihi felt so overawed by her outrageous luck as when it presented her with the sight of her regent. Though Nihi supposed, in a vague corner of her mind, that the Rora’s attendance at this party wasn’t too far-fetched – this was, after all, her daughter’s occasion, and all the most notable Toroshu of the empire were here – something in the Rora’s presence was utterly grand and fantastic. The ruler of the Kentoku Archipelago, the highest force in civilization, was here! Nihi watched from afar as babbling supplicants assaulted the Rora from all directions, and she heard the void in the party’s murmur when they all went immediately quiet, which was whenever they so much as heard the Rora inhale. Both by virtue of her lofty position and her steel fortitude as a socialite, the Rora owned every Dasaka who lent her ear. Nihi was terrified by the prospect of joining her captive audience; both out of fear and out of admiration, Nihi dared not approach – and inevitably, with her history, subsequently dishonor herself before – her ruler. Besides, while Nihi was a guest at this party, she could not play by the same rules as the upper castes. The jostling circle keeping a tenuous berth about the Rora was not a friendly animal; if the party had taught Nihi one lesson, it was that she didn’t belong in it. Afraid of being drawn against her better judgment towards the magnetic Empress, Nihi resolved to keep playing her game from before, keep examining the members of the crowd. Almost as soon as she’d started, a male Dasaka caught her eye. Like the Rora, the Dasaka wore no costume; but like Nihi, he hugged the wall. He was the largest male Nihi had ever seen – with this party now under her belt, Nihi had seen quite a few, so this meant something – being about a half-head taller than everyone else, and bulky with muscle. He leaned into a stone pillar, and looked very much at ease in his body, unlike the unnervingly upright nobility around him. Nihi recognized in his relaxed stance and peak physicality the body of a warrior who had not devoted reckonable time to the ways of the elite, something other Dasaka had noticed in Nihi all night. Instinctively, Nihi respected and trusted this male as she hadn’t trusted anyone she’d yet encountered on her bizarre adventure into the world of the privileged. He repositioned on the pillar, and something flashed at his hip; it was the hilt of a gargantuan sword, made of metal. As Nihi noticed the warrior male’s idiosyncratic weapon, the caller made an announcement, but this time it wasn’t to alert the guests of a new arrival: it was to inform them that the fireworks display was about to begin. In tandem with this proclamation, Dashi Shadows opened the grand doors on the Dragon Hall’s seaward side, previously closed, revealing a stunning view of the clear night sky, the Sado docks, and the endless ocean beyond. Though the fresh portal afforded the partygoers a clear view from where they reveled of the demonstration that was yet to come, those wanting a better view surged forward to crowd the terrace and feel the salty breezes on their masked faces. Nihi, as was her wont, stayed back. She watched as the Rora, escorted and aided by the hulking sword-bearing male, cut politely through the crowd and to a side door; moments later, the Empress and her companion were poised to see the show from the elevated balcony, which was opposite the sea window. The male leaned down to hear something the Rora said; he spoke a terse sentence back, and she smiled warmly at his slight frown. The Rora’s smile was contagious. Nihi had no idea what words had just been exchanged between the Rora and the warrior, but it didn’t matter to her unconsciously raised cheeks. The fireworks display only made Nihi’s smile grow. … I already told you, Kuno didn’t do it. … The demonstration was spectacular in the most literal sense; it was spectacle unlike anything Nihi, and perhaps the rest of the crowd, had ever seen. There were terrific explosions of color, rains of sparkles and pops of stars and cascades of light in almost as many hues as were to be found in Nihi’s dress. The bangs were born with satisfactory frequency and volume; the smoke from the crackers obscured the twinkles of stars, but snaked and bloomed around the raining rainbow cinders in a way that accentuated them. The whole party gasped and whooped and stood raptly facing the display. It was remarkable that Nihi, even while entertained by the fireworks, retained enough presence of mind to realize that she found them – indeed, the whole party, now that she thought more about it – to be, though impressive and diverting, ludicrous, and even condemnable. Was this really the life the wealthy led? Elaborate pyrotechnics, masquerade costumes, ice sculptures – any of which probably cost more than Nihi spent on food in a year – that would only be used once? How could it be that the ruling class of the Archipelago, those tasked with power by Zuto Nui’s will, was so… wasteful? Petty? Foolish? Lights flashed in their upturned eyes, and this satisfied them, even as Saihoko merchants hardly stayed afloat, as the Janu Bird disappeared from the Archipelago, as the Chaotic Six still roamed free. Nihi didn’t even see the fireworks anymore; they no longer entertained her. Again, but for entirely different reasons, Nihi believed vigorously that she did not belong at an event like this: now, though, it was because she felt oddly superior to the other guests. That thought made Nihi do an internal double take. How dare she consider herself above the upper caste? It was not her place to think that way, and she was immediately ashamed of herself. Had Nihi really convinced herself that the leaders of her civilization were flawed? That the Toroshu, the Chojo, even the Rora – Such a thought didn’t bear thinking – even the Rora— Nihi glanced back and up, intent on reassuring herself of her Empress’ worthiness of her love, just in time to see an orb of pulsing Soulsword energy burst like a cannonball outward through the center of the Rora’s chest. The cavity in its torso smoking gently, the body of Rora Yusanora flopped into the balustrade of the balcony and slid down its inner face. The orb, having performed its function, dissolved in midair. Nihi screamed at the same time as a particularly loud firework’s bang.

IC: The evening had gone, so far, about as well as Nihi had expected it to go: poorly. Admittedly, there’d been many mutters upon Nihi’s entrance. Her Markets infamy was, for the most part, disguised beneath her plumed mask, so Nihi was forced to conclude that it was her dress that attracted the attention. The garment was a work of superior craft, and Nihi was glad she wasn’t the only one who though so; she’d stared in awe at her own reflection for minutes before she’d left for the party, and watching other eyes do the same relieved a little of her private embarrassment. But aside from murmured remarks at her descent, and not-so-subtle pointer fingers as she meandered about the Dragon Hall, Nihi went more or less ignored. She found that, once she’d descended into the party, nobody considered her important enough to talk to. Though she was dressed like them – better than many, she noted with both satisfaction and shame – and carried a flute of wine – untouched, Nihi didn’t dare drink – like them, Nihi was treated to as many remarks as the Dashi Shadows that waited on the guests. None of the extravagantly outfitted nobles whose elbows she brushed as she made her way aimlessly around the hall approached her; nobody called out her name. She could (and did) stand silently at the fringe of conversational circles and not be addressed once. Nihi wondered what betrayed her. What gave her away as of inferior class? Was it the way she stood? The Dragon Hall’s ornate decoration, elaborate and intricate though it was, could only interest her for so long, and that time had long since passed. Conversation being nonviable, Nihi resigned herself to standing in a corner and watching the other guests, making a boring game of trying to read their status and clan by their body language and costumes. It would have been more fun if she’d had someone to speculate with, and not for the first time that evening, Nihi longed for Nachi’s company, as it’d once been. She tried her best to quell the impossible hope as soon as it arose. While surveying the crowd, Nihi found two figures she recognized across the room: Kuno and his servant. Nihi was surprised that she hadn’t spotted the Fursic first son earlier: even she knew that his black garment was controversial in this setting. The servant wore pink-orange, and as Nihi squinted from afar at the detail of the subtle mask, the servant twisted her head and looked directly back at Nihi. They held eye contact for a few moments; then the servant turned haughtily away. Nihi had gotten the distinct impression when they’d first met that the servant didn’t like her; the cool glare Nihi had just received only solidified her impression. The servant bent into her master and spoke in his ear, and Kuno nodded, looking up. Nihi was sure to avert her eyes this time. Unexpectedly, Nihi felt her mind immediately assaulted by something awful, a high-pitched scream. Vainly, she clapped hands over her ears; but, oddly, the mental shriek diminished to nothing at the same instant. Experimentally, Nihi lifted one of her hands, and found – as she’d expected – that it hadn’t been her hands that had blocked out the noise; and yet, before her eyes, other partiers winced and bent double, as if still afflicted by the sound. That was strange indeed. Nihi looked about for the source of her salvation, and while this wasn’t readily apparent to her, she did notice another familiar face quite nearby: Soraya, the garment-maker. Just like Nihi, and unlike the pained-looking guests in the distance, Soraya seemed curiously unaffected by the mental caterwauling. Nihi, both curious about what had just happened and relieved to see a friendly face, followed Soraya as she rapidly approached a purple-wearing Dasaka who Nihi didn’t know.

Patience.

IC: Zaktan unformed himself immediately upon his realization that the ice Reordin had spread upon him for the past few moments was turning to acid. The lime liquid, no longer supported by a solid body, easily sieved through Zaktan and fell to the rooftop; the block of ice-acid, no longer attached to Zaktan’s form, fell to the ground and, weakened by the Ta-Koro heat and the corrosive acid Reordin had turned its runoff into, cracked on impact. The green and gold swarm, which had been shaped as a Skakdi only a thought before, promptly rocketed into the air, extracting as much of itself as it could through the cracked block of ice as it did so. Zaktan’s Zamor Launcher, and another small object, clattered to the ground as he ascended. Reordin, faced with a fully dissolved Zaktan for the first time, tried to duplicate the feat that had imprisoned Zaktan’s hand. He fired ice elemental energy at the rising cloud, but without success, for Zaktan’s buzzing horde evaded his frosty projectiles midair like a fly would evade an impending palm. As the Zaktan cloud lowered towards a proximate rooftop, Reordin sprinted to the edge of his roof and took a skillful leap, knees tucked, across the alley to join his foe there. In midair, Reordin realized that he’d made a mistake. Almost instantaneously, and far faster than Reordin could have expected, the vague cloud reformed fully into Zaktan – or, nearly fully; there was still the gouge in his knee, and now streaks of corrosion from the acid – and aimed its reconstructed head at him. The Skakdi’s eyes blazed, and broiling beams erupted forth to Reordin. Even before he’d instinctually summoned an ice shield, one of the lasers grazed his shoulder and left a scorched line. Distracted by the flare of pain, Reordin finished his jump without grace, smashing into his own ice shield as he landed on the new roof. Zaktan was already gone; a cloud again, he’d returned to duel’s original roof. Avoiding the puddle of acid that now ate away at the ground, Zaktan stomped down on the thoroughly melted block of ice with his good leg, finishing it and thus allowing what remained of his damaged particles therein to return to the swarm. He bent to pick up his abandoned Zamor Launcher and the vial of Antidermis, simultaneously ducking an icy shot from Reordin. As Reordin returned, this time creating an ice bridge before him (jumping hadn’t done him much good), Zaktan again employed his Laser Vision, forcing Reordin to approach behind a shield of ice that melted rapidly beneath the concentrated light. When Reordin transmuted the front of his shield into a mirror, Zaktan promptly ceased – the reflected laser barely missing his arm – and fired a Jitter Sphere instead. Reordin raised the shield to protect himself, and the noxious green sphere burst on impact, releasing its glowing gas near the region of Reordin’s head. At the same time as Zaktan shot his sphere, Reordin caught one of Zaktan’s feet in the same block of ice his enemy had smashed moments before. Zaktan didn’t bother trying to muscle his way out of the ice; his foot simply dissolved, flowing like grains of sand out of its mold, and reformed outside its frozen confinement. Zaktan’s disentanglement barely bought Reordin enough time to make it back to the first rooftop. Zaktan, despite his limp, approached like a bladed tempest, and Reordin was forced to use his ice axes again. The Skakdi and the Toa exchanged a few clanging strokes, but after just a few moves in their whiplash death-dance, Reordin was aware of a stinging in his forearm. Had one of the prongs of Zaktan’s scissor caught him without his notice? It was a minor injury, and Reordin dismissed it, for he was too focused on merely holding his own against the flashing golden blades to be distracted by something so trifling. But just a few weapon-clashes later, when he parried a strike aimed at his shin, Reordin felt a similar, more serious wound appear on his leg, and surprise and pain almost made him buckle beneath Zaktan’s next slash, a particularly savage overcut. How had that happened? Before Reordin could figure out his wounds, Zaktan’s eyes flared red again, this time aiming to melt Reordin’s face at close proximity.

Recently, I'd been too busy to give this topic the thorough read-over it deserves, or to compile and execute a to-do list from it. I'll get to this soon, though.

OOC: This and other posts in the Reordin/Zaktan fight include instances of autohitting. This is because Ty and I trust each other as writers and have given one another explicit permission to take some liberties in the progression of our fight. Don’t try this at home, unless you and your opponent player(s) have come to a similar agreement. IC: The Skakdi and the Toa didn’t say words; they opted instead to speak with their blades. The Toa was very fast – the wound on Zaktan’s knee was proof enough of that – and his magnetic fluidity in combat, which belied his brittle element, was admittedly unexpected. Considering the showy bravado with which this Toa of Ice had engaged him, Zaktan was passively intrigued by his enemy’s complete metamorphosis from empty braggart (bragging was almost always a bluffing mechanism; Zaktan had outmatched many braggarts simply by ignoring their puffed chests) to efficient duelist. It was as if, under the heat of Zaktan’s cool ferocity, an external façade of the Toa had melted, reducing him to someone entirely different, someone who would survive at any cost, and who knew the value of his energy. Zaktan dismissed the possibility of a strategy of over-exertion. The Kanohi on the Toa’s face was one he’d never seen, so Zaktan was sure that it was this mask that’d given the Toa the unexpected ability to alter Zaktan’s spheres midair, change the ground beneath his own feet. It probably would have been just as easy for a Toa this fast to dodge the sphere; to have changed it was a superfluity. This was how the enemy’s initial overconfidence had cost him; immediately upon beginning to battle, Zaktan had been aware of his partner’s special ability. Zaktan, meanwhile, had only briefly hinted at his own trump card, and at a time when for a less agile opponent, the result would have been disemboweling. Though Zaktan never counted on uncertainties, it was entirely possible that, at the speed with which he and this Toa were fighting, the Toa hadn’t realized the scope of Zaktan’s particularity. A feinted nick of Zaktan’s scissor coerced Reordin to parry above his head emptily with one ice axe; Reordin’s second axe was there in time to catch Zaktan’s real strike, which twirled out of the ruse, on his other side, but Zaktan had more than one appendage. While Reordin chopped down with the feint-cover axe, Zaktan scythed his flat foot low around Reordin’s forward ankle, jerking it towards himself so that the Toa of Ice lost his balance and, his downward strike missing its mark, stumbled closer to Zaktan. Zaktan slammed into the Toa’s open, proximate gut with the three prongs of his Zamor Launcher, bruising Reordin and shoving him still closer to the edge of the terrace. Before Reordin could recover total footing, Zaktan pressed on. From one knee, Reordin fended off slash after expert slash of the scissor. With the prong at the end of his weapon, Zaktan snared the hook of one of the axes, pulling it up above Reordin. Reordin slashed at Zaktan’s open midriff with his other blade; to his great surprise, the sharp pick of the ice axe passed through Zaktan’s body with as much resistance as it would’ve passed through air. The force of what should have been a debilitating blow, transferred unfettered through Zaktan, carried Reordin over to the side. Reordin also found that, as he lost balance once more, the caught pick of his other ice axe was no longer a secure fulcrum for his tumble, and before he could stop himself, he was falling fully to earth. Zaktan’s sword, solid once again, followed Reordin’s neck down. If Zaktan had his way, his scissor would hit the rooftop before Reordin did.

IC: As Sesseta approached the little Fursic cluster, Nera caught sight of her, but did nothing to bridge the gap between them. Instead, Nera let her sister and her sister’s attendant come the entire way on their own feet; a subtle but certain disrespect. Nera didn’t like her sister, and she wasn’t one to disguise her disapproval. “Hello, Sesseta,” Nera scowled, fondling the glass I’d just brought her. “Aunt Sesseta,” Kuno said, greeting Sesseta much more jovially than his mother had; anything that upset Nera was enjoyable to him. He stepped to Sesseta and took her hand with a thin grin. “It’s so good to see you. You’re looking very well… how have you been?” Sheika, sensing her presence in this Fursic mixer had outrun its course, slunk with an undisguised smirk away from our circle. Sesseta’s handmaiden and I met gazes, and exchanged a nodded salutation. Our kind didn’t usually hold the animosity of our masters against one another. Above and behind Sesseta’s servant, my eye was caught by the many-colored dress of a newly arrived guest. While Kuno and his aunt exchanged their pleasantries, I watched the rainbow-clad Dasaka pass past the guest caller, but then be summoned over to her with a hushed word and a beckoning finger. The caller bent close to the rainbow-clad Dasaka and spoke something her ear; the Dasaka pulled out her invitation, showing it to the caller, and said a few words back. The caller nodded slowly, and dismissed the rainbow-clad Dasaka. As she proceeded down the steps, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something very familiar about this Dasaka. Upon her announcement, Kuno’s attention was drawn, too, and my sensations of familiarity were confirmed. “Nihi, of Clan Eiyu.” Of course it was Nihi; her athletic build, the way she descended the stairs – with trepidation belied by the surety of her warrior’s steps – were unmistakable now that they were named. Nihi’s dress and mask had stayed my recognition, as they were very much unlike anything I’d ever seen her wear. Draped from one shoulder, the better to display her sharp collarbone, Nihi’s dress clung to her form as it proceeded downwards. Shortly after passing her jaunty hips, though, the long skirt of the garment diverged into front and back drapes, each of which came to a triangular point that fell straight down and displayed her legs on either side. The shape of the dress was elegant – all rounded points – but what made it stand apart, and made it so rich, was its rainbow coloration. No two spots were of quite the same hue, and yet there was astonishing unity wrought by this infinity; green, yellow, crimson, violet, ocher, gold, cream, indigo, peach, russet, turquoise and countless other colors were skillfully dyed and overlaid within the fabric, creating a striking, effortless-seeming harmony. Nihi’s mask and the fringe of her dress were covered by real – and therefore, extremely pricey – Janu feathers; there was no question what animal she’d come disguised in the semblance of. Kuno watched Nihi cautiously descend into the party, and his face had reverted to its emergency default: blankness. To see his failed instrument at the Chojo’s party, and costumed so expensively that only the Chojo could have invited her, indicated to him that his ploy had been uncovered, at least to an extent. He would have to proceed with supreme caution.

OOC: Don't worry GSR, no need to split your character in space-time, anymore. IC: pre-party: Questions or worries? Nihi had plenty, but very few of them pertained to the dress she'd just bought. Fortunately, a logistical inquiry came to her mind. "Just one, ma'am," Nihi posited. "When should I return to pick up the dress?" "The evening of the party," Soraya replied. "And later rather than earlier... I've gotten so many orders for this party, I can't say for sure that yours will be ready any sooner than the moment the event starts. You'll have to - er, no, you'll be able to - arrive fashionably late, emphasis on the 'fashionably.'" Soraya smiled a bit at her own joke; she welcomed any release of her day's tension. The concept of arriving late to an important appointment was a bizarre one to Nihi, but she could only tell herself, when it wealth, do as the wealthy do. The business of tailoring done, Nihi extended her arm, presenting Soraya with the bag of dragons once more. Soraya took it, but looked inquisitively at Nihi again. "The dress I'm making you won't be worth this much... There aren't many outfits that could possibly be worth this much." "That doesn't matter," Nihi said. "This is the money I was given for clothes, and I can't keep any of it." "In that case," Soraya suggested. "I could always make you more garments. This many dragons could really fill someone's wardrobe... Not with more dresses as fancy as the one you're already getting, of course, but with other things." "I don't need more dresses," Nihi replied, shaking her head. But in mid-shake, her eye was caught by something draped over a wooden dress form in a far corner of the room; a half-finished outfit, made of a cerulean fabric that was either turquoise or blue depending on the angle that the light struck it. Something about the cloth was arresting; at once, Nihi knew what she wanted to do. "Could you make me a scarf out of... that stuff?" she asked Soraya, pointing at the cloth. "I just want the dress, and a scarf. The rest of the money can return to the Chojo's credit; I'm sure she'll use it again soon." "If that's what you want, that's easy to do," Soraya shrugged. "The scarf won't be ready at the same time as the dress; is that a problem?" "No," Nihi answered. "The person who's getting it isn't going anywhere." ...

IC: pre-party "Whatever you think is best," Nihi answered, very much aware of the measurements being taken of her body. She couldn't remember the last time - if ever - she'd been so thoroughly physically examined, and the touch of the seamstress, though assured and knowledgeable, was alien and a little off-putting to her. "Simple sounds good, though."

IC: pre-party "My name is Nihi," said Nihi. "My favorite animal..." She remembered to just a few days ago, when she'd seen a flash of many colors flit around the layers of the Gardens, and how the sight had made her smile. The bird she'd seen had also, though she hadn't known it at the time, heralded the arrival of the Chojo. It was the natural choice for Nihi to make. "I like Janu Birds."

IC: I told you before that you could trust me. Trust me when I tell you this: Kuno didn’t do it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Kuno’s shoulders were, as was their wont, knotted stones as I fixed his cloak – velvety black, with just enough dark red trim and embroidery as not to be outrageously controversial – over them. Stress, resentment, and despair had only tightened my master’s back; it was easy to imagine that at some point, the cords of his muscles would become so taut that they would snap like the strings of an overexerted lyre, whip out and hurt all the people close to him. These were flagellations I knew I would have to bear. Tonight was an important evening: tonight, Kuno would do what he could to set into motion his third plan. This time, though, his plan was simple, and not of his conception. Tonight’s scheme was ordained by Toroshu Nera: tonight, Kuno merely had to present himself in as eligible a fashion as he could, to remind the world – and the Chojo – that he was a suitable match for her. The mundane domesticity of his night’s duty rankled on Kuno; his mother had no faith in his ability to do anything of value, other than be paired off for political gain. He had lost all her respect with his failures, and there was nothing he could do now but play his part in her game. All this could be read in the tendons of his neck. For the masquerade, Kuno was dressed as the sea itself. He wore a long, heavy cloak, the fringe of which was cut in a wave pattern, several interior layers that were draped like falling water over his body, and a towering mask that looked like foam breaking on rock. His garb was almost entirely black; aside from borders and thin embroidery of various sea creatures in Fursic red, he wore black velvet, in turn accented with onyx shaped like sea-smoothed pebbles. The darkness was a bold statement; black was seldom worn for anything but events of highest ceremony, such as the crowning of a new Rora, or a funeral, or the matching of two Dasaka. Kuno’s garments’ color had, like everything tonight, been Nera’s decision; perhaps she’d been hoping to remind the world of Kuno’s status as a male and a partner. Beside Kuno, a pair of silent Dashi shadows was dressing Toroshu Nera. Her costume was made to match Kuno’s: she was disguised for this event as the sky. Where Kuno wore black, she wore white; like Kuno, she wore only tinges of red. Her mask was a great cloud, and tiny diamonds accented her face as they dangled from its edge. Despite the size and boldness of Nera’s costume, her diminutive frame wasn’t lost in it; unlike Kuno, Nera wore her controversial attire with pride. The shadows tied Nera’s mask last; with that final touch, the Fursic Toroshu and First Son were ready to make their entrance. “Straighten your spine, Kuno,” Nera ordered as she dismissed the shadows with a wave. Her voice, as usual, was bladed. “You must not slouch. You must be proud of yourself, proud for our family.” “Yes, Toroshu,” Kuno obeyed, pulling up his sternum to remove the smallest of slouches he’d fallen into. “Call me ‘mother,’ tonight,” Nera smiled coldly. “We must not let them see your weakness.” “Yes, mother,” Kuno replied. As I straightened Kuno’s cloak for the last time, I pressed my thumbs into Kuno’s shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension from them. “Ikori, make yourself ready,” Nera sniped. “You delay our entrance.” “My apologies, ma’am,” I bowed. I quickly assumed my own costume: I was a coral reef, garbed simply but elegantly in pink-orange, with a mask cut from real coral. Nera did not wait; she ushered Kuno to stand next to her as they began to walk, in step, towards the Dragon Hall’s grand arch. I caught up and followed, skillfully unassuming, behind them. “Toroshu Battlemaster Nera, of the Clan Fursic; First Son Kuno, of the Clan Fursic,” the announcer called as Kuno and Nera entered the hall. The spectacle that met the eye was incredibly rich. The Dragon Hall itself massive, with a high, vaulted ceiling and spacious alcoves all around. Dozens of tables were arranged on rising platforms all around the central floor, where the centerpiece of the immense chamber – a gigantic ice sculpture in the likeness of a Kanohi Dragon – resided. Over the ice sculpture was a balcony, elevated high above the rest of the party, and large enough for just a few Dasaka to stand upon it. This platform was reserved for the Rora and her retinue, and was used to address the entire hall, for its placement was acoustically ideal for filling the echoing chamber. Kuno and Nera, as they made their way slowly down the steps and into the hall, drew many gazes. The announced arrival of the most important members of one of the eldest clans on the Archipelago was bound to solicit at least a cursory glance from anyone; but the way the Fursics were dressed held those glances and inspired mutters that drew still more eyes. Nera’s decision of white and black attire (the red of which, from a distance, was almost invisible) had been a bold choice indeed. The two Fursics descended, and almost everyone in the hall watched them come. A Dasaka in orange, the Dastana’s First Son, chuckled to himself at the sight of the Fursic pair. Kuno did not slouch, even under the pressure of the party’s stare; he was well trained. Once Kuno and Nera made it down into the throng, though, the spell was broken, and the other guests returned to their conversations, probably now giving a few words to the sea and sky costumes. Nera, seeming supremely unconcerned with the stir she’d caused, promptly approached a Dasaka I didn’t recognize, and Kuno and I followed. “Sheika, dear,” Nera smiled, her wizened face lupine. “Good evening. It’s good to see you out, for once.” Sheika, the Dasaka, turned at the sound of Nera’s voice. She was of average height, but incredibly thin, almost skeletal. Her joints, especially her knuckles, were sharp and bony, and her limbs were ropy with undisguised lean muscle. There was something about her face that vaguely reminisced a Taajar; like the rest of her body, Sheika’s visage didn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere, granting her scimitar cheekbones and enhancing – or creating – her striking face, with its narrow eyes and full mouth. She was not attractive in any conventional sense, but there was a paranormal, precarious beauty in her lithe, slim appearance, which was enhanced by her feline motion. Sheika wore Dastana yellow, and was masquerading as a snake, which suited her. “Nera,” Sheika drawled, holding out her glass as the Fursic Toroshu approached her. “I could not avoid coming.” She hadn’t addressed Nera with any title; this was odd familiarity. Nera didn’t seem to mind it, though; she chuckled a bit, and gestured Kuno forward. “This is my son Kuno,” Nera introduced. “I don’t believe you two have ever met. Kuno, Sheika is the Dastana’s Battlemaster; she’s hardly ever about in social situations like these… Too busy to give the likes of us her time!” “Self-improvement is a consumptive task,” Sheika answered with a lazy half-smile. She extended her long-fingered hand to Kuno, and he took and bowed to it politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, First Son Kuno.” “And you, madam Sheika,” Kuno answered automatically. “Madam?” Sheika asked Nera with false incredulity as she pulled her hand away from Kuno. “Am I now a madam?” “Polite company makes us all feel older, darling,” Nera grinned. “But you are still in the peak of youth; not like me. And you look beautiful tonight!” “Thank you, Nera,” Sheika said, her half-smile returned dryly. “I do what I can.” “Ikori,” Nera snapped. “Fetch Sheika and me wine.” I gave Kuno a glance; he did not stop me. “It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” I bowed, before going to one of the fountains to fill two glasses. It would be a long evening.

IC: "Yes," Nihi replied, a little bit relieved that she'd been asked a question she knew how to answer, and been asked it with a smile. The friendliness emboldened Nihi enough to say more about her purpose. "I'm... someone's guest, and she gave me this to buy an outfit." Here, Nihi raised her heavy sack of dragons, and passed it over to Soraya, who received its weight with a slightly raised eyebrow. "What will this get me?"

IC: As quickly as last time, the Kanohi in the Abettor's chest changed, returning to the Kakama. Before Ishi could even process what was happening, the behemoth had stepped forward with its newly-granted speed and seized the Po-Matoran between the fingers of its only hand. The Abettor's thumb and forefinger were an iron collar around Ishi's neck; hanging from the Abettor's grip, Ishi felt himself start to choke. The empty sockets of the Abettor's Kanohi, juxtaposed against the glowing letters, were spots of blackness; if they stared, it was without mercy or even living empathy. "You misunderstand," the Abettor rumbled, the resonance of its drum-deep voice making Ishi's bones vibrate. Without further ado, the Abettor dropped the Po-Matoran through the hole in the floor of its tunnel. The ground was very far down.

Guys, please reserve the inane banter for N&D.

IC: pre-party Entering the workshop had only augmented Nihi's acute awareness that she was drowning in the claustrophobia of wealthy company. It was hectic inside the shop, with orders being placed here, picked up there; the busyness of the business was intimidating alone - what would Nihi say when it was her turn? She didn't know what she wanted, and she'd only waste someone's time with her indecisiveness and inexperience - but was made all the worse by the stature of the customers around her, who seemed to know exactly what they were looking for. Nihi was able to pick out the main tailor whose name, based on the address Nihi had received, was Soraya, without difficulty: Soraya could be nobody else but the extremely flustered Dashi who seemed to be talking to everyone, and moved like a hummingbird all about her shop. Nihi, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, was quickly drawn to watching the seamstress at work - her efficiency, though borne of extenuating circumstance, was somehow magnetic - and so when Soraya gestured to Nihi, she didn't miss it. The hesitance with which Nihi approached had nothing to do with whether or not she was certain that it'd been her that Soraya had summoned. "Hello," Nihi said haltingly as she got within an appropriate distance. "I'm... here to buy something to wear."

IC: "We do not mind what you do," the Abettor answered. "We do not give mind to minding. We give mind to duty."

IC: "We do not know which tattoos to which you refer," the Abettor clacked. Once more, its posture shifted definitely; this time, the behemoth grew taller, and had a definite aura of menace, even though its tone was unchanged. "Your questions have been without purpose, and it is not our duty to answer them. We are not here for petty inquiries, and we will not answer any more of them."

In other news...

IC: It was common knowledge on Odaiba that nothing could live in the crater of Mount Koshiki. Koshiki’s peak was the highest point on the Kentoku Archipelago, of course, which automatically entailed all manner of altitudinal hazards – icy winds, thin air, and perilous falls – but this wasn’t what made the top of the dormant volcano so infamously inhospitable. The toxic lake was to blame for that. Putrid and stagnant, its waters were deep turquoise with poisonous chemicals that had, over a geological eon, bleached and saturated its beaches. It wasn’t just the ground that was corrosive; the mountain winds picked up and spread the lake’s noxious fumes all about the crater, killing seeds and animals that stayed too long. But the crater wasn’t without life. A little ripple broke the stagnant surface of the lake, and more waves quickly accompanied it. A large, dark shape moved through the venomous water, earning greater clarity as it ascended for air. The shape at last broke the surface, splashing and spraying searing droplets as it did so, but before the water had settled, before it could be clearly discerned amongst the foamy disturbance it’d created, the shape, a great beast, plunged back into the lake and, eel-like, began to swim underwater towards the shore. Upon reaching the sloping shoreline, the beast stopped swimming and began to wade, pulling itself languorously out of the water. Bit by bit, with ponderous slowness, it emerged into the air and into the clear sight of nonexistent eyes. First came its head, long snouted and long whiskered, with teeth as keen as Soulsword blades, horns as tall as a whole Dasaka, and eyes like lanterns. The front claws had cruel curves, and were situated in huge, padded paws that in turn were fixed to the beast’s tree-trunk legs. Its midriff was a serpentine coil, a gleaming conglomeration of oddly shaped scales topped by a spiny ridge that followed the line of its spine. The back legs looked as powerful as the front ones; the tail was a gorgeously adorned giant’s whip. Fully emerged from the lake – from a bath that burned the dirt off of its scaly armor, but caused it no discomfort – the Kanohi dragon shook itself off like a dog, and ambled along the beach. Something caught its roving, haughty eye: a bright-hued rainbow bird was perched on a faraway ridge. How a Janu had survived the gases of the lake – how a rare Janu bird was even on Odaiba – was anyone’s guess. It was certainly highly unusual, and the Kanohi Dragon could appreciate the strangeness of the circumstances. Birds made enjoyable chase, and this one had ambled straight into the dragon’s path; the dragon wouldn’t pass an opportunity like that up. With deftness that belied its size, it prowled along the edge of the lake, taking a circuitous path towards the Janu. Perhaps aware of the approaching predator, or perhaps trying to find another eddy of clean air, the Janu fluttered further away, towards a round alcove cut into the ring of the crater. Though massive relative to the beings that’d carved it out in archaic days, the alcove was nevertheless small within the ring of Koshiki’s grand crater. Six huge pillars of crystal, their flat sides intricately carved with disjointed letters on top and bottom, but blank and prismatic at their middles, towered like weathered sentinels close to the edges of the alcove. At the center of their hexagon they created was a much shorter crystal protuberance. Atop an otherworldly platform wrought wholly from amethyst, raised from the corrosive sand by a short flight of steps, there was a bizarrely shaped crystal, clear and white as fine glass. In front of the glass-crystal was a deep notch; opposite the notch, and flush with the rough-hewn wall of the alcove many meters away, was an upright slab of perfectly smooth stone, the pale face of which was flawed only by another strangely shaped node of crystal fixed in its middle, and a few lines of inscribed text close to its base: Across an endless ocean Upon pale metal’s home My key is in possession Where you are soon to roam The hand of fated treason Is signal to depart A prize of ancient season Becomes my crucial heart My twin will never give Until you make me live The Kanohi Dragon could not read, so the inscription was, as usual, of no concern to it. The alcove itself was nothing novel, either; it wasn’t as though this odd niche had appeared out of nowhere. It’d been there as long as the dragon could remember – which was a very, very long time – and had never been worrying or even very interesting to it. Rather than examining the familiar inanity of the alcove, the dragon gave its acute attentions to the Janu, which had perched on the alcove’s middle crystal. The dragon crept closer. The bird preened a little, ruffling its vibrant feathers. Closer still, the great serpent crawled. The Janu looked at the dragon. The Kanohi Dragon stopped. In the same instant that the bird launched itself off its crystal perch, the dragon pounced. The Janu was fast, but the Kanohi Dragon faster. With the ease of ruthless reflex, the dragon caught its plaything midair upon one claw, skewering the bird through its rainbow wing and causing it to screech a harsh note. The dragon’s tremendous forward momentum carried it shoulder-first into the alcove’s amethyst platform, which it knocked heavily against, cracking one of the purple crystal steps and almost striking the glass-crystal with a stray spine. The dragon, none the worse for wear even after having fractured a piece of solid crystal, examined the flailing Janu upon its claw for a few ponderous seconds before it bit into the bird. The dragon started to turn away, intent on a return to the lakeside where it could enjoy its treat. A brilliant blue light in the corner of the Dragon’s vision recaptured its attention. Having come seemingly from nowhere, a strange being behind the amethyst platform faced the dragon. This being was nothing that the dragon had seen before; it was shaped vaguely like a Dasaka, but it was too big to be one, and it didn’t seem to have a head, and its body was covered in glowing eyes, which were the source of the blue light. Confusion – and interest – stayed the dragon; hesitation was its fatal mistake. The odd not-Dasaka pointed its right arm at the dragon, and the dragon had a split second to notice that where a hand would have been on a Dasaka, this strange creature had a lump of misshapen blue crystal. The crystal lump throbbed with light, and then an energy pulse rocketed towards the dragon; before the great serpent could react, the pulse struck it squarely in the neck. The Kanohi Dragon’s neck, followed like line of dominoes by the rest of its body, was transformed into water. The not-Dasaka watched this happen, then directed its crystal fist at the cracked amethyst stair, and fired another pulse. The stair, when struck by the glowing energy, repaired itself. Its work done, the Abettor returned to its hiding place. The sudden stream of water that had been its predator carried the dead Janu bird, mangled almost out of its shape by claw and tooth, down the corrosive sand and into the toxic lake, where it disintegrated. Nothing could live in the crater of Mount Koshiki.

IC: "Yes," the Abettor replied.

IC: "A machine cannot be alive because it is not alive," the Abettor clacked. Very suddenly, the great guardian repositioned on its haunches, causing Ishi to jump a little bit. The adjustment of the Abettor had been minor, but total; who would have believed such a large thing could move so fast? Ishi also noticed that the mask in its chest cavity was being exchanged in the blinking of an eye for a Kanohi Arthron; as the Abettor kept speaking, the mask shuddered to a halt in its place. "We are aware of how we speak," the behemoth continued. "But nobody has ever seen the need to inform us of something about which we are already aware. There are, as far as we know, six of us."

IC: The Abettor was quiet for an uncomfortable period. Ishi couldn't help but hold his breath - and his chewing - in the face of the tyrannical silence imposed by the behemoth; the guardian didn't so much as twitch a finger or hiss a valve. By now, Ishi could look up and see the Abettor almost totally clearly; its dark armor, its huge shoulders, its broad cylindrical torso, its powerful leg pistons, its strange crystal fist and, of course, the scrawls of madness written in glowing blue all over its body like ceremonial tattoos, wrought before the Po-Matoran a figure steeped in legend and emanating dangerous strength. He'd started to doubt if his tirade had even been received by the Abettor when the behemoth began to reply. As if listing the types of stone in the room, the Abettor replied to all the questions Ishi had posed. "We do not live, nor do we die. We are here to protect that which we have been charged to protect. We never get lonely." The Abettor's voice, deep and hollow-sounding within its drum-like chest, was also hollow of tone, so Ishi was unable to read much of anything in it. Not giving Ishi much time to process, the Abettor plowed on ahead. "You are here because of the engraving on the door below us. We do not know what it means."