ACTING ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome to Jhashch.
WHEN? The first three weeks of Spiderland!
ANYTHING ELSE? Please warn for anything besides physical violence and move to a personal journal if it's beyond PG-13.

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD;

There's a room where the light won't find you

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

DEPARTING BASE

PLEASE ASSEMBLE FOR TIME-STEP AT 0600. ETA 0900 LOCAL TIME.

The call comes a day in advance, warning that it's time to pack and brush up on your datapack before everyone heads out. Remember to act with strength, as if you're always prepared for a fight. As per etiquette training, recruits are to speak and act on behalf of COST, to declare their side of the war superior to the Regency's. There is no such things as too much boasting in the coming political summit.

You're to appear in dress uniform—for once, skulking and hiding is unnecessary—and form five rows of ten in a facsimile of a proper army, for one last dust over...and one special appearance. Grothia and Young appear openly for the journey as your Commander and Scout, dressed in their officer uniforms. Grothia is her usual put-together and stiff self, but Young makes a different sight, markedly non-feathery and distinctly human in shape; she cuts a slight figure next to Grothia, with a hood that casts her face in shadow.

She holds herself with the necessary poise, but doesn't seem the least bit happy about it. If anything, she seethes, even as she stalks down the aisles of recruits to distribute night vision goggles. The spiders like their lairs dark, after all.

And, once the numbers are cleared: the time-step begins.

» THE TIME-STEP

The transfer begins like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, just a hum of sensation.

But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomenon as "the buzz". The feeling builds, not unlike standing near a great engine or the wind-rattled branches of a massive tree. There is a long moment of motion sickness and you can't be sure if the world is shaking you from the inside out or the outside in. It may be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea, as the world blurs out of focus.

A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Others say they feel a touch of the divine, that the eyes of the eternal look down upon you. Ancient bones rattle just out of earshot, cold and brittle and nothing more than the suggestion of sound. Or maybe it's only an illusion, brought on by the powerful technology grafted into your skin.

One thing is for sure: One moment you are here and the next you are not.


THE ARRIVAL

The first day in Jhashch is a fast-paced affair, laid out from start to end with particulars. This is your time to shine, COST; first impressions are the most powerful ones. So stand tall and, if you feel queasy, at least wait until your Aranean greeters turn their backs to vomit. Though expect judgment for such a grotesque show of weakness.

The destination this time isn't a field or a ship or crammed in a corner; no, for once recruits arrive in a bustling terminal, in the same lines they departed BASE. COST is welcomed off a round platform—and there are others like it, used by Araneans and humans and more, to vanish and arrive with nary a second glance—by a female Aranean, with a data screen in one of her four hands. The arm is clearly cybernetic and old enough that she's accustomed to it. She steps forward and her dress drags with seemingly impossible weight, far too heavy for a human. Rich orange silks trail behind her, rustling with movement.

But more notable is her tremendous height and many eyes. She dwarfs everyone present: at three meters, she is lean and powerful. Her multifaceted gaze, however, focuses on Grothia. She bows, first, but only to Grothia and Young; it seems no one else is worth noticing for the moment and, in turn, Grothia and Young bow back.

"I am Lady Tchuul, a daughter of Matron Nkouk's first clutch, of the house Chchai. I welcome you on behalf of the royal family to Jhashch. We will guide you to your quarters." Two male Araneans come forward as she speaks. They're easy to identify; unlike Tchuul, they're in human disguise and only two meters in height. But they match her dress, suited in the same rust-orange as their lady. "You will receive the list of events for this evening from another guide, who will come later this afternoon to collect you for the Royal Family's banquet."

Grothia replies with pleasantries, thanking the Royal Family for the invitation and the House of Chchai for welcoming and honoring COST with their presence; Young, meanwhile, still simmers. The male Araneans don't speak and the Matron's daughter never seems to acknowledge their existence—but she does notice COST's male recruits. There is a moment where she looks past Grothia with her many wet black eyes and something subtle twists unpleasant when she lays eyes on them, like she's seen something particularly distasteful.

But she looks back to Grothia only to say, "If you will, please, follow me."

Grothia's hand lifts, two fingers up in military singling as she points first up and then directly forward. Fall in, they're moving out.


IN RESIDENCE

The terminal is in the outermost layer of the Third Ring, with wide windows that face into the unforgiving Jhashchan landscape. Lady Tchuul leads the recruits through these halls, giving them glimpses of everyday spider life—at least for the upper class and their servants (often uthcki, but sometimes human). It's another half-hour journey on foot into the Second Ring, which is more of the same, but tighter, denser, and with the occasional trip over bridges that gives way to dizzying views of Ymir's bones, mined far below in the unforgiving landscape.

But at last she brings COST to their quarters, a rectangular villa that faces into a courtyard. The courtyard is filled with bright alien flora; at its center is a sculpture of a blindfolded female Aranean, with a large beast at the foot of her robes. A few tame skrit chri roam its confines; they're all young, standing only a meter tall. It paints an almost idyllic image, if not for the relative darkness and high vaulted ceilings overhead.

The building is open and intimate, almost delicate in it's furnishings. Each member of COST has a room that opens into the courtyard, featuring a large four-poster bed, a desk, and a set of drawers. Cleaning and laundry is handled by human servants; notably, any attempts to speak to them fail. By and large, they avoid your eyes completely. Forcing conversation turns into blabbered apologies and an attempt to flee.

Take note: these are the spies you were warned about during training. It's hard to turn a corner without seeing one of them here and they stand out all the more when labor this menial is typically performed by uthcki. Araneans, if asked, will claim it's for the comfort of their guests; most humans find the uthcki uncomfortably uncanny valley.

A set of male Araneans guard the outside of the villa, under the pretense of ensuring COST and the Regency play nice while in Aranean territory. If the groups are to shed blood, it's best done in a manner appropriate to the land they're visiting, right?

After more greetings—and yet more bowing—recruits are left to their own devices until the banquet. You're given relative freedom in traveling the Second and Third Rings, though you'll find the First Ring—where the Royal Family dwells—impossible to access. If you attempt to travel the other way, Araneans will find it odd you want to leave the innermost Rings at all; most spiders spend human lifetimes trying to kill their way into this sanctum.

However, if you aren't interested in leaving your quarters, you aren't left bored. A small troupe of musicians appears around midday, sent as a gift by Matron Nkouk, consisting of a singer and a few instruments. They set up in the courtyard by Grothia's invitation and play until an hour before the evening's activities. They fill the air with traditional Aranean music, which remains soft and sweet. They're most definitely more spies—each day someone new will idle their hours away near COST's recruits—but there is no way to refuse them without being offensively rude. So Grothia keeps them where everyone can see them.

At this point, everything is about managing what is heard by whom.

» THE THIRD RING

Should you take to exploring, whether before the banquet or after, you'll find tall, powerful Aranean women walk the Third Ring, dressed in long, elegant day clothes and with one or two servants behind them. Others travel in carriages with glass windows, pulled by hhcho. The architecture varies; some buildings are huge mansions, bustling with people and extending onto bridges, sometimes even over the top of the street. Others are more modest in size, if not in decoration, and give the appearance of interconnected terrace houses.

The facades of the houses are intricate stone and metalwork, featuring effigies of Araneans and their servants. Some carved murals depict the Great Consumption: Araneans attacking, defeating, and eating their creators. Others have weapons carved into archways or around window frames, with mock lines of spears to make up fences. Some show unity and pride with their family house written in intricate letters.

But one thing, however, is the same to them all: like the courtyard, there is a statue of a female Aranean on every corner and gazing down from doors. Her eyes are always covered by a sash of highly expensive material and her lips are painted in a faded red that sometimes drips from her mouth. Some of the wealthier houses hang their statues with heavy, valuable jewelry; others include the beast seen in the courtyard, seemingly poised at her fingertips. Veteran COST recruits may recognize the pose and motif of the statues, for they are the Watcher and the Hunter, insofar as the Araneans have interpreted them.

For recruits particularly sharp of eye, you may notice that, unless it's a statement of power, servants are kept out of immediate sight. Peer a little closer and you'll discover they travel through small corridors secreted into corners, connecting huge mansions.

» THE MINES OF YMIR

The Second Ring is marked by huge bones growing from the massive ravine beneath Ythaway. They go on for miles and there are no railings; it should go without saying, but don't fall. The false atmosphere humans need to survive ends only a mile down. In some areas, it's possible to make out the remnants of steelwork, once the foundation of the labs, or lower class spiders nimbly leaping through the cruel space to mine the precious resource.

And throughout it all, even the most nonmagical, sixth-sense blind can feel the pulsing of life. When passing through earlier, Lady Tchuul explained this is all but an extension of the palace itself; lesser rooms for those outside of the immediate family and Great Houses, who vie for rank in the inner circle. And there are many of them, moving through both the streets and glimpsed through the windows of the formidable houses.

More than that, news of COST's arrival has spread. And with it comes a far more unwelcome feeling: intense scrutiny.

It might not be more than a whisper, or a look given askance by one of many sets of eyes. But whoever they pass and however they do so: COST operatives are quietly, subtly, addressed. Some of it's favorable, while others regard them similarly to Lady Tchuul; the higher ranking spiders have no issue displaying open disgust, based on gender and magical ability. Others, female and artificial, are given more appraising looks. Even in exchanging glances, hierarchy is everything and the spiders will readily single out potential victims.

THE HIERARCHY

Recruits of artificial and magical origins will find it most difficult to get around without attention; their presence is almost magnetic to the spiders, who zero in with astounding accuracy. Anywhere they go, they'll be hounded. While male spiders will largely refrain from entangling themselves in COST's affairs, aware they're socially outclassed, Araneans are not a shy people and aggression is always the name of the game for female spiders.

They find this trait desirable in their consorts as well. Especially in a show of physical strength; the bigger and beefier, the better the meat, after all.

» ARTIFICIAL

Artificial recruits—even men—will find they gain easiest access to semi-restricted areas with the least questioning. The problem lies in using this as an advantage; artificial individuals are constantly observed and judged for their strengths and weaknesses. It's nigh impossible to slip away and the Araneans are merciless in their questioning.

The nature of your origins, your augmentation; if it pertains to your artificial condition, they're eager to hear about it. It may be best to exercise your storytelling abilities to satisfy them. In return, Araneans readily brag about their genetic history, including that of their ancestors; those lower in rank will readily use the conversation as a leg up in the race for power.

» NATURAL

Almost always overlooked in favor of their company, natural recruits have their work cut out for them if the spotlight is something they want to earn. Aranean eyes practically slide right over them; only their dress separates them from servants in the arachnid worldview.

Natural recruits who attempt to approach an Aranean will often be met with light surprise. Male Araneans are more receptive to conversation, satisfied by holding rank over someone natural, but keeping the attention of a female spider will vary from individual to individual. The staunchest followers of the hierarchy will utterly ignore attempts to communicate, but more liberal members may ease into a conversation.

» MAGICAL

A constant reminder of hunger and treated as such, Araneans instinctively loom over magical recruits. Magic exists for Araneans to mine and consume; it automatically marks the life attached to it as prey. It's a difficult stigma to overcome, but power and viciousness is key. But this victory comes at a price; should a magical recruit gain prestige, it doesn't so much put them on par with natural or artificial recruits as it makes the Araneans ever more enthusiastic about consuming them in the event of defeat.

Araneans are willing to converse with magical recruits, if only to assess their weaknesses. They love the thrill of a good hunt. Male Araneans are again more likely to be civil with those perceived as lower than themselves, but they too associate magic with food. Consequently, recruits of this rank are at highest risk of death, especially if their aggression is subpar.

» HYBRID

To be unique is not a good thing in Aranean society. Hybrids aren't meant to exist, aberrant to both the artificial and magical. They'll find themselves barred from locations just as often as magical recruits; the scrutiny they face is less vicious than that experienced by the artificial and less predatory than that of the magical, but they'll face a constant air of suspicion.

Hybrids will have the hardest time performing their diplomatic duties; Araneans shun anything that doesn't fit their defined hierarchy and find this mix particularly disgusting. But while hybrids are derided and treated like something diseased, they're also the least likely to be eaten. Even if they kill a hybrid, many spiders consider the victim tainted meat.


FROM GAMING DENS TO THE CROOKED ROCK

Whenever recruits are given leave to engage in entertainments—or perhaps sleuthing—they'll find a slew of activities in the Second Ring of Ythaway. But remember there isn't a word that the Araneans won't use as blackmail, especially when COST is causing a bit of a stir.

But to help maintain appearances, each COST recruit receives a small, gold disc, that looks something like a coin; it works akin to a credit card and provides the holder with a small splash of cash, amounting to a grand total of 500 CCs (cross credits, roughly equivalent to $1000 or €800). There aren't any rules as to how you spend it—and do not ask how they got these funds, thanks—but Grothia makes it abundantly clear there won't be more coming, so spend wisely. And not on, say, your weight in jelly babies. She also advises you keep it on your person at all times; she refuses to be responsible if Young steals it out of sulkiness.

The Siopai is a series of shops and entertainment venues; the most popular and easily accessible in the Second Ring. But it's also wealthy, impossibly so, and the problems begin almost as soon as you're there.

While a disturbing amount of purchases and services in the innermost rings are simply out of COST's price range—at least not without intensely pooling your credits together—sometimes it's not even easy to walk into a store. Almost all of the shops have a male Aranean standing guard outside and many will actively block recruits from entering, especially if they're male or magical, or accompanied by someone of that rank. These stores tend to be high-end and have only incredibly powerful and amazingly well-dressed figures in them.

The ones that do let COST members in are:

» BARS & MIDDLING RESTAURANTS

The Araneans were engineered by humans and, alien as some of their traditions may be, others are strikingly familiar. Like any human city, the spiders have no shortage of bars. Moreover, it's tennis season, even if it's a little varied from what COST recruits might know: a match involves two rackets and two balls in a match, and it's almost always in doubles. And, as in most competitive arenas, Araneans are very committed. Their people kill for the right to join sports teams; drafts are less drafts and more battles to the death. Walk by a bar during a game and it's likely packed with female Araneans shouting perverse suggestions (and threats of devouring) at the holoscreens. They're raucous events, with a healthy amount of booze and food, just...be careful you know what you're eating. Otherwise, they're generally places for all sorts to mingle, from the highest to lowest.

But, should you attend, watch your limbs. Araneans are known to accidentally devour whatever's closest to them out of excitement. Most establishments expect to lose more than a few uthcki this way during high stakes games.

» HUNTING SUPPLY STORES

Hunting, go figure, is an immensely popular sport amongst Araneans. There is a range of high- to low-end stores and the ones that open to COST soldiers are moderate, offering a limited but decent supply of traditional hunting weapons. The most common is a spear and dagger and heavy leather armor; Araneans consider firearms tacky and hunting in particular is a display of your strength. Hthi are in season; if you're lucky, you might see a female Aranean bring in her kill, eager to prove her strength.

» HANDICRAFTS & ARTS

Araneans are magnificent craftsmen, as their many arms and fine motor control might suggest; it's difficult to match the speed and skill that they create their art. But it is possible to learn or refine existing skill, should you so desire. And Araneans have everything, from clay modeling to jewelry-making to an art all Araneans perfect at a young age: lace-making.

They spin huge shawls and wall decorations of crocheted lace. It is one of the very rare times noble spiders deign to spin their own silk, and only if they undertake a specific diet to produce the highest quality web (and there are books in these stores that delve into its specifics). Alternatively and far more practically—especially for those that do not produce silk—there are walls and walls of fine ply wools and cottons mixed with silk.

» THE RACETRACK

The largest racetrack in the Second Ring is located just above the shopping and entertainment areas, and it is always packed. Racing skrit chri is a fond pastime for many an upper-class Aranean, with the bonus of one day consuming your prize steed, after they're past prime and have sufficiently passed on their genes. The tracks the skrit chri run aren't like those of Earth's horses, however; they're almost wild terrain, requiring acrobatics along with speed.

And betting pools are just as dangerous as the rest of Jhashch. To gain a buck, you might find yourself gambling limbs or even your life; neither are worth much here, to a people who risk both every day by merely coexisting.

[If you'd like to pursue something unlisted and aren't sure if it's allowed, don't hesitate to ask here!]


BACK TO BUSINESS

Two hours before the banquet, a message appears on the BCE:

TWO HOURS UNTIL FORMAL DEPARTURE. PLEASE SEE TO ALL PREPARATIONS.

It's time to get ready. Get your court clothes out—whether they're red or blue or purple—have a shower, and brush your teeth. Make sure your hair is in place and every last buckle is tightly cinched, shoes polished and tightly laced. If you don't...well, the servants are here to help. While they typically only assist with cleaning, they'll do your hair, paint your nails, and assist with fiddly materials that need an extra set of hands for a banquet as important as this.

Or maybe you don't trust the servants and would prefer to call another COST recruit over to help. It's not a bad idea; it's a good time to double-check your aliases and go over your Aranean social skills. Make sure you know the who's who of the Aranean upper-crust and that your pronunciation of their names isn't miserable; keep in mind who you're meant to bow to first. Failure here has as high stakes as any battle, so make sure those steps are right.

As always, only the rapier and dueling pistol are allowed in polite company, as far as weapons go. Other weapons and armor are forbidden wholesale; they're better saved for the stadium.

At the appointed time, carriages appear to escort recruits to the dinner. They're similar as to those seen earlier, but longer and entirely windowless.

Don't lose your glass slipper, now.


THE WALTZ OF THE FLOWERS

The carriages deliver COST to a great set of stairs that lead up to a huge door, marking the entrance of the inner palace. They arrive in a grand ballroom with a vaulted ceiling and translucent pillars—tubes—wrapped in gold vines. It's possible to see the same steelwork from the mines beneath the finery, the remains of a lab made into lavish decoration, holding up a ceiling meticulously painted to depict the Great Consumption. And, in particular, a female Aranean. She wears no human skin and carries a sword and spear, crushing and consuming humans amongst eggs of the first clutch. She stares down over the guests with her terrifying, domineering appearance.

The room below her is only furnished with lounges that line the room. Many Araneans sit on them, but each corner seems to be reserved by a member of the Great Houses. They're easy to identify—the surrounding Araneans defer to their every action and word—but they don't seem to be the Great Matrons. Rather, it seems they're the heir apparent; Lady Tchuul is seated at the center of her house. Each family is distinct as well; as varied and lavish as their clothing may be, members shares a particular color between them.

A small orchestra plays in one corner, in front of an area set out for dancing. Already couples and groups move on and off the floor as songs start and finish. In fact, it's popular and universal enough that Araneans and foreign diplomats alike approach and are allowed to approach without regard for ranking. There is almost a merriment to this space, perhaps because of the event itself or the wine passed around on trays. Whatever the case, the Araneans are keen that there be no wallflowers here; for those of you with clumsier footwork, you would do well to ask a fellow recruit to rescue you.

And there's no mistaking that the scrutiny is much worse than on the streets. From the second you step into the room, the whispering begins behind glittering fans or in another language. Their many black eyes follow you avidly and, even if their mouths smile, it's possible to see fanged mandibles pressing from inside the skin. Because they are skins, long-dead humans who are now nothing more than a thin veneer to what lies beneath.

But they are beautiful. Each Aranean, male and female, is a moving piece of art. The women average three to four meters in height and their trains are meters upon meters of layered fabric, masking the click of arachnid limbs. They are studded with jewels, hair intricately arranged, and weight is no object, evidenced by every effortless step, regardless of the impossibility of their clothes and headwear. The men favor sleek, clean lines that show off lean whipcord bodies; their extra legs protrude like fans from their backs. And between all of them is a sense of purpose behind every move and glance. There isn't a member of the court who doesn't move with a dancer's grace.

Araneans were created to be without equal, needed by countless star systems for what they have been perfected to mine, and they intend to let no one forget it.

» RETURN OF THE REGENCY

The Regency arrives in white, sleek and almost clinical in their luxury. Decked in lace, they glitter with diamonds and perfect poise, like sharks in the water. They've come with three factions, identifiable by the insignias stitched into each of their sleeves and the servants who follow them. Silent, still, and always at attention to their assigned lords and ladies, the servants look more like soldiers.

Most obviously, however, is that the majority of the servants share the same face. Or three different faces, each representing a distinct family in attendance.

The Araneans ignore them, as they do all servants, but some spiders murmur out of Regency earshot. It's a mix of low anger and belligerent respect, for these are the Regency's shabti. Clones, in short, engineered to serve. It's a political move on behalf of the Regency, to establish the superiority of their own diplomats: even the lowest amongst them holds rank above the genetically engineered, regardless of their own augmentation.

And, for those watching the Commander during dinner, it's easy to see how her jaw tenses when seeing them. One of the Regency diplomats, ever calculating and with impeccable manners, leans to an Aranean nearby. "We thought to bring reminders of home and her old comrades for Parsy-Luo—oh, forgive us. We mean Commander Grothia."

You may also recognize Mary Smythe, now under the name Mhic Nathair. She walks with distinction and has a shabti servant of her very own; this one isn't a soldier, but bows and scrapes along behind her as a perfectly polite, demure secretary.

And, while Araneans do their part to keep COST and the Regency in line, they won't prevent agents from mingling with each other. You do you, fam. While many will watch out of the corner of the eye and any words exchanged are far from private, encounters with the Regency won't be bloody events. At least not yet; they treat COST with a disdain that is by no means manufactured and is not far off from what recruits experienced when they met Kebechet.

» LONG LIVE THE QUEEN

After an hour and a half of free mingling, the two guards by the door send up a sharp cry that is almost a song. Immediately, everyone scatters to the sides of the room. The music stops and the Araneans sink into deep bows, faces turned up. You'd do well to follow their lead.

The Queen has arrived. The entrance doors swing open to reveal her in all her glory. Standing at five meters tall, she is a statement of pure power. She does not hide her lower body or her extra arms and legs. There is little about her that could be called wholly human and it's hard to breathe if you stand too near to her; literally so. Her clothes aren't fabric; her gown is of chainmail and, moreover, Ymirite bone. Linked meticulously together, even dead the Ymir seems to breathe, sucking vital elements and moisture from the air. Those magically sensitive will feel it sing in the air and even the most oblivious will sense the change in air pressure.

Beneath the dress, Queen Thsh's skin is inhumanly white and mottled with purple where it meets her exoskeleton. All eight of her eyes are pitch, liquid black and stark in her face. She strides the length of the hall and, after she enters, the rest of the entourage follows her.

The family resemblance is striking with her children, though the purple is lighter or darker, depending. Five steps behind the Queen is Crown Princess Chch, equal in height to her mother and in a black dress that thankfully isn't as oppressive to the atmosphere around her. The Twin Generals Shai and Aythy keep pace behind her, in gorgeous dress uniforms rather than gowns. After them is their brother, Prince Shch, dressed as richly as any of his siblings if smaller and less prominent in almost all other ways. The hierarchy is clear.

After them come other noted members of the court, including the Matrons of the Great Houses. The Regency's three most prominent emissaries accompany them; should you take care to listen, you'll learn their titles are Khnum, Ptah, and Tatenen. And, for better or worse, your own Commander and Scout are in attendance. Though it's a different look for them, Grothia and Young have risen to (or been forced into) the occasion. Young's face is, as ever, masked and Grothia balances against the weight of the train behind her. Neither of them look comfortable, but they commit to the Araneans' etiquette and don't falter in their steps.

It's only after the procession is seated that entry into the banquet hall is allowed.


BON APPETIT

It begins with the first chime of the evening bell.

When you enter the banquet hall for the first time, you are required to bow first to the great table that seats the Royal Family, Matrons of the Great Houses, and honored guests. This is done one at a time for all guests and that goes for COST, too. You might have a wait ahead of you, but try not to fidget too much. Araneans are drawn by movement, after all.

From there, you may either proceed to your seat or approach the high table at the end of the room, where the Queen presides over her guests. Here, you may bow and receive a cursory inspection. Queen Thsh is known for her long memory and you can be sure that, brief as the interaction will be, she will remember it.

It takes a good half hour to seat everyone and, when it is done, there are roughly three hundred or so guests present. COST is seated in small groups, interspersed between the many courtiers, but the Araneans notably avoid seating anyone from COST next to anyone from the Regency. While the Araneans enjoy bloodshed, they've no intention of running afoul of their guests, especially before they know what each side has to offer.

But at last the first glass of wine is brought out, as is custom, and the Queen lifts her glass and cries, "SKOLGA!" As one, the Araneans—and hopefully you—raise their glasses with her and scull their wine. Long and tedious a trial as it may have been, the banquet has begun.

» EAVESDROPPING AND YOU

It's possible to overhear some interesting gossip whilst you're mingled with the guests. Much of it's idle, if pointed chatter, and the Araneans will needle as much information out of you as possible, so watch your tongue; they're eager to keep you the fly in their web.

The bulk of Araneans in attendance are from the four Great Houses. On the surface, they all offer their respect and support to Queen Thsh; beneath that, it grows...complicated. Ever the backstabbing species, every Aranean present has their own vendetta and those vendettas revolve around the acquisition and maintenance of power. It's also no secret that political games are ever one of numbers, so it's important to know where these families stand.

It takes some digging, but characters can discover the general political sway of each house.

JANKEH: Matron Awai and her eldest daughter, Jcck, can barely stand each other's company. It's not a secret and hardly unusual to see them hissing and clattering at each other. What is a secret, the rumors say, is what they fight over. While lacking evidence, the most prominent rumor is that Jcck selected a member of the Chchai family as her first consort and her mother vetoed it. No one is sure why she might have done that, but the other rumor is it involves a trade deal the family was meant to get for the High Queen.

SHAIY: Matron Thchnk was a staunch supporter of the Crown Princess for years, as the Matron and and Princess grew up together. However, there has been a rift since the Crown Princess rejected a male put forward by Matron Thchnk, as a potential consort for the Crown Princess. No one is sure if it's because the Crown Princess hasn't dared to take a consort since the famous incident with her mother or because of a personal disdain for her potential suitor. But, because of the refusal, the male Aranean has remained out of the public eye and kept company with Prince Shch. It's also been speculated that Matron Thchnk and the Crown Princess haven't been as close since.

KHAH: This house firmly detests the royal children, due to how they previously destroyed the family. But they don't seem to favor Queen Thsh either, instead seeking to secure their own power. Consequently, gossip brands them disloyal and oft mentions Matron Jhhnk vowed never to forgive those who slighted her—though it's unknown whether she means the Twin Generals or who her house killed to reclaim their position. Her children are young; several at the banquet are almost ready to choose their first consort, allowing more insight into the habits of this private family. Word is, worse than saucy, they're militaristic to the point of dullness—whatever that means for an Aranean.

CHCHAI: Out and out in favor of the Queen, and thus of COST. They're said to have dirt on every family worth knowing; one rumor claims they have secret books of blackmail. They are incredibly assumptive in all their conversations and openly seek COST members to speak with them. They have no qualms about making conversation with newcomers, even if it might be of questionable worth to polite Aranean company. But it's also a well known fact the eldest daughter, Lady Tchuul, is starting to feel suffocated by her mother.

» ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND GORE

The dinner is peaceful, for the most part. Conversation is all doublespeak, but no more than that. Until there's a clatter of razor-sharp cutlery and glasses.

It happens in a flash. Uthcki decked in colors befitting the Royal Family bring out servings of skrit chri when there's an inhuman, furious hissing sound. The Great Matron of House Chchai, Lady Nkouk, looms over the Matron of House Shaiy.

There's a moment of stillness as Lady Thchnk touches the fresh gash through one eye. It weeps blue blood, dripping onto her chest and elegant silk dress. Then the dinner erupts into a flurry of violence as the two houses set upon each other in earnest, like two great waves crashing into each other. Screams of pain and victory come as they tear at each other's limbs and fine clothes. Blood splatters, some even reaching towards the ceilings.

The other spiders scatter, brazenly cheering on one side or another, and a few even pull COST and Regency agents out of the way; they are promised diplomatic immunity, after all, and the spiders aren't ready to eat either side yet. Moreover, this is an affair that the Chchai and Shaiy houses need to sort out themselves and you're blocking the view.

There's a strange, organized quality to the chaos. The houses don't mistake bystanders for enemies, hyperfocused on each other, but it isn't a perfect science; it's best to steer clear, to avoid getting devoured by any stray mandibles. This isn't a duel where the goal is to avoid bloodshed; this is an open challenge over an accident with cutlery, a match where it's winner take all, including her victim's life.

When the movement stops, Lady Nkouk lies dead on the floor amid a heavy silence. Bodies twitch before going still. The numbers of the Shaiy family are diminished, but victorious.

In the aftermath of violence, Queen Thsh congratulates Lady Thchnk as she devours what remains of Lady Nkouk. The rest of House Chchai, including the Lady Tchuul, lie slaughtered. Other members of House Shaiy stand over them, proud and splattered with strange spider blood that runs red and blue. In areas where it's puddled, it's become a vibrant purple. A cry goes up, cheering the fall of one house and the rise of another. But for those more astute, it becomes obvious that the politics of Jhashch just changed dramatically.

Once everyone regains composure, utchki clean up the blood and, rather than take it away, collect it into an ornate vessel. The surviving members of House Shaiy dip their fingers into the blood and slide it up their jaws.


POSTMORTEM

After the chaos of the dinner, your next few meals might seem a little dull. Or perhaps your appetite is gone completely; it's understandable, but you should do your best to get it back. The upcoming weeks promise to be strenuous ones and the local restaurants are not nearly as considerate about clearly labeling what's in your food (although maybe you'll try the local flavor, should you like food that shrieks).

Most notably, a week after the dinner, after they've laid first claim, House Shaiy auctions off House Chchai's remaining possessions. The items range from cheap trinkets to outlandish furniture and vehicles; there are even a few hhcho and skrit chri, who survived the initial rush to devour the family. COST is permitted—and even encouraged—to participate, though most items are likely outside your price range. A victory is almost sure to hurt your pocketbook.

[If you want to participate in the auction, reply here!]

» THE BALANCE OF POWER

Still, in the wake of their arrival, COST recruits remain curiosities to the point of mild celebrity status. Whether this is for good or ill... Well, that remains to be seen. The Araneans are keen to interrogate recruits' on their preferred arenas, however. Already, there's no shortage of rumors whispered about the upcoming event's grandeur; the Royal Family ordered the construction of an entirely new stadium, stretching precariously over the pit of Ymir. It also seems the Araneans have heard of COST helping in the Parisian Riots and it's something they admire. Over the coming weeks, it becomes clear that those who rebel are prized by this former servant group, who overcame their oppressors by eating them.

Hence, you may find yourself receiving letters of challenge or, Watcher forbid, fan mail. By and large, the challenges are one-on-one endeavors with reluctant promises that neither Aranean or recruit will die. Probably, anyway. The tone varies from vicious to deadly polite; you can turn them down, but know it's either a sign of weakness or a slight...or both. And, should you choose to accept a challenge, you should never go alone. These are invitations to private noble homes, after all. It'd be a shame if something happened to you.

Oh, also. Enjoy the media attention. While it's quiet the first week, the closer the arenas come, the more likely you are to encounter an Aranean reporter and their paparazzi.

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Comments

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota.

[reillumination]

INFERNO: CANTO I (ABOUT THE RINGS).

[ Murmurs follow them, follow him.

Along the Rings, he feels the weight of eyes pressed up against his back. Countless eyes, black and pitch, which in turn wink out most often each time he passes. The sharp click of mandibles and scandalized hisses follows almost always after.

Unlike many recruits, he does not require the continual use of the night vision goggles they’ve been given, which sit pushed up neat against hair on-and-off, off-and-on again. Any who keep track of him would note they’re most frequently on when talking to fellow recruits, to spiders that insist on cornering him. It isn’t so much for his own vision, one could postulate, as much as it is a means to obscure everyone else’s. ]

A. life which made them foul.

[ Perhaps you’ve run into him while he’s viewed as anomaly – a feat much simpler to witness – a thing to be left in the dirt of the Aranean Hierarchy. Like this, he’s easily able to slip through and by largely unnoticed. Some spit curses at him if he comes too close to them, but there’s something wound and coiled in the way Ryo navigates through the space they’ve all been enclosed in for now. ]

Shut up, [ he bites out eventually. Out of all he’s glared back at, this one seems to have hit its mark. How unsightly, wearing a skin like that. It’s a particularly venomous mud-slinger, their mandibles clacking, and Ryo has his hand on his pistol beneath his coat as it passes, tittering as though his words mean nothing at all. ] I don’t need your bullshit! If I’m unsightly, then look somewhere else!

[ It gets worse the deeper he goes, but eventually time finds him in a quiet and discreet corner nearer to COST’s quarters, cigarette in his mouth. He’s muttering to himself, his free hand clenched against the blue fabric of his coat. It’d be best if you greeted him instead of sneaking up. ]

B. from one blood to another.

[ Or, perhaps, you’ve run into him while he’s viewed as something magical. Spiders always seem to be hungry and are more than eager to weave him closer to them. He doesn’t step near anyone in COST, but it’s possible he falls closer into their path. He’s only human. It had to be from what he’s already known. He’s only – ]

Go around, there’s less of them this way, [ he says, after a long moment. He isn’t necessarily relying on anyone here. It’s just advantageous for him, especially if whoever is closest to him is of a particular persuasion more appealing to Araneans. ]

C. falls each star that rose.

[ Maybe you’ve seen him just now or maybe you’ve seen him through all three as rare as that might be. This hour finds him cornered by an Aranean, their many eyes glistening appraisingly over his form. They’re definitely asking more than a few questions of him, and anyone stepping in might find them asking after his origins and where he was born – what made him so unique, since it seems like he wasn’t modified at all. Ryo, for all of his lack of tolerance for conversation with those he has no time for, seems to be holding his own just enough. ]

My guardians never gave me a chance to see the inside of it. The building was taken down after I was born, [ he continues, his voice pitching into something low and dark. Staying vague in details helps when Ryo doesn’t understand why it is he’s being asked. That power he was given shouldn’t throw them off this much. Should it? He can’t question it right now, not when he’s focusing on keeping his posture stiff despite the feeling of nausea that wells in his gut. There’s almost a bubble of laughter that comes up in response as the Aranean mulls over this and asks a little more. For some reason, he can’t seem to stay consistent in their hierarchy at all.

Peculiar. Give him a hand anyway? ]

D. entered on an uncouth path.

[ Or maybe you’ve caught him on the worst day he could have had here in the rings: there’s two spiders currently bickering loudly over what in the world he is, which might give anyone around enough time to slip by if they’re being hassled too. ]

Hurry up, [ Ryo hisses. He has no problem yanking you by the elbow if you’re not fast enough to follow him into one of the corridors the servants bustle through. ]

PURGATORIO: CANTO II (VICES & WAR).

A. to be gnawed by self-reproach.

[ Humans often used vices to forget their own troubles and Ryo was no exception, regardless of how much doubt had been cast on him over the last few days alone. So, perhaps it’s just natural that he winds up in one of the bars, a bottle of something that resembles wine at his hand that he dutifully keeps pouring into his glass each time he drains it. Each time he sets it back, there’s a smudge of blue at the rim, though whatever lipstick he wears seems to stay put by and large regardless. It’s a pretty contrast in a dim, dreary den of purples and reds. There’s a good mix of individuals here, both Aranean and no. Even with the game buzzing on the background, whatever dive he’s found is quieter than most.

If his posture wasn’t so well kept and his makeup wasn’t so well set – one could say he’d look tired if he was wishing for an easy death. Ryo, for his part, isn’t. Still, he doesn’t really pay mind if you sit down next to him to grab a drink. He’s too aware of everything else that could kill him here.

However, if you go to order, he’ll chip in almost nonchalant despite his otherwise tense air. ]

If you want a drink, don’t get that. There’s barely any alcohol in it.

[ Just how long has he been here? ]

B. you have seen the fruitless desire.

[ SEE BELOW. ]

PARADISO: CANTO III (DINE WITH DEVILS).

A. a great flame follows a tiny spark.

[ He’s skilled enough, that should be given to him.

There’s a small hit of a bruising along the high of his cheekbone that he seems to be covering without much aplomb in time for the banquet, the blue of his eyes almost too blue against the dim and the dark. He’s already pulled on his formal wear without so much as a wrinkle or a pull, but he might notice you struggling with your makeup if you’re grumbling loud enough.

He’ll turn, made more notable by the click of his heels, his arms crossing loosely in front of his chest once he finishes up. ]

Don’t smear it around like that, [ he says, voice just as cool and even as usual. Still, there’s something wan at the edges that wasn’t quite there before. ] It’ll start flake off as soon as you start eating.

[ He’s not really being generous or kind here. He just has other things to worry about. You and your failure to apply lipstick or concealer isn’t likely to be one of them. ]

B. like diamond struck by sunlight.

[ Ryo doesn’t dance much back home.

But, expectations here are high and he’s not about to get eaten because he’s got a rebellious streak a mile wide and the glimmer of contempt of their circumstances in his eyes. He’s had at least a drink or two to take the edge off of what they’re about to do and so if he’s going to be coupled off into someone’s proximity, he’ll bear it without so much as really looking at you – at least he appears the part. ]

Keep up, [ he says, more of a direction than a request. If take the hand he’s dispassionately extended, you might notice how cool and smooth his skin is once you get past the impeccable blue of his nails. Once the music strikes up and you’ve settled in, he’s surprisingly graceful for someone so off-standish. Just don’t mention it to him. He’s liable to fumble. ]

C. to be secure from corruption.

[ There’s something dark and strange in the pale of his eyes that flickers and flares as the families tear each other, spackle the dance floor in the thick of their blood.

Unlike the recruits who move and flee about him, he remains for a moment suspended. It’s long enough for anyone to notice. It’s long enough to notice the odd way his mouth curves, the blue of his lips upturned into something half-horrified and half-enthralled.

He might not be close to the battlegrounds, but he’s close enough.

If you want to pull him back or pull him on out of there, it might be to his best interest. ]

DANTE: SUMMON SOMETHING NEW.

[ I'm happy to write you up something special, should you like! Hit me up on here, disco (morning star#3715), or on rasasvada. OPENS ARMS. ]

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | closed.

[reillumination]

[ Surprisingly, it’s taken this long to get the harder end of his ire.

It comes up in an argument that you can’t quite hear, but there’s a sudden shattering of glass and Ryo’s up on his feet – steady despite the amount of alcohol he’s seemingly imbibed. Grasped in his palm, there's the remains of the neck of the bottle he's had at his hand all night. Fractured as it is, it cuts into the pale of skin. Blood pools between the tips of his fingers, drips. If he cares for the mess he's made across the barroom floor (and he doesn't), then he needn't to because in the back, the game roars across a grouping of television sets and the curious eyes are far and few.

There’s slivers of an exchange caught here and there – something about a bet. Some off-color joke. A statement of how Ryo’s bound to be the next entertainment piece for the Araneans he’s stumbled into. And then, it’s Ryo’s voice that comes up, clipped sharp and thin. ]

Oh, that? [ He laughs, the smile that jerks up about the laughter dissonant – out of key. He brandishes the bottle before him and it brings up a surge of chattering, but it's only temporary. ] I’m not worried about that. You’re more than welcome to go ahead of me.

[ It’s not what he says that starts it, not really. He’s mostly a hybrid, something not to be touched and not to be taken too seriously – but it’s someone else who was looking for lunch (which they seem to have decided might be him). A chitinous leg lashes forward and Ryo jerks – he manages to miss the brunt of the strike by ducking. It grazes a smaller spider behind him instead and there's a bark of a laugh as the new target legs their way into the brawl.

It isn't too long before there's three. Four. And Ryo skirts the outside of the mess he's helped made manifest, eyes flashing wide and bright against the chaos of it all. ]

[bivariant]

[ The shattering of glass, across the length of the bar and down among the legs of a gathering of Araneans - their level of insobriety growing over the night - where her eyes have been set on the blonde with a wicked mouth and a temper that seems to have devoured the length of its fuse. With a makeshift weapon in hand, it doesn't take long for the bodies to surge around her, moving in on the fray that's broken out at the far end. The bodies massing, and she briefly loses sight of the shock of blonde hair -- no, there.

Cheris leaves her place at the far end of the bar, ducking through the legs of one of the Araneans rearing back ( whether she's preparing to dive into the bar brawl, or wisely deciding to move away from it, Cheris does not wait to see -- ). She slips through the elegant, chitinous legs and takes the direct path, the heel of her boot striking one of the segments of leg that comes too close to her for comfort. And then, squeezing past the rounded back end of one of the angrier Aranean females, she pushes through the hissing, chattering mass of inebriated scrappers and throws herself to the wall alongside the COST member she'd seen enter. ]

There you are.

[ @CRUELLA, her memory supplies. She sounds genuinely relieved, at that.

Behind them, the bodies are surging. Growing closer and closer, and she knows that the brawling bar-goers will eventually spot she and V-- Vergil. Vergiliusmaro, the faux name that was long and difficult for the Araneans to say. A subtle thumbing of their noses at the Aranean's distinct vocal structures. She reaches out, taking hold of his blood-slick wrist as she flattens her back to the wall, trying to draw him with her. ]

They could always choose to kill us and not eat us. We're leaving. Now.

[reillumination]

[ There's an uproarious clacking, the glistening of wet and wild eyes, and Ryo's own are so blue beneath the dim light that from underneath the dark fan of his lashes they look both inhuman and feral. The neck of the bottle is still clenched in the red of his fist, the smell of unnatural and alien blood pungent enough to taste when he breathes in as one female Aranean tears into an opponent's hard limb — breaks it clean like kindling from the joint. She consumes it with all the fury and fire that he's seen in much sharper maws back home, tongue slick with red and vicious ichor. There's a smile that knives across the full of Ryo's lips, the building of laughter behind his ribs as another pitches bodily in to avenge her injured comrade. This kind of power, this kind of display — it was mesmerizing and horrifying in ways he could not drag a word across. He weaves about the surge of bodies, keeps to the blind corners of their sight. He is only a human and he is not enough, not now, to catch their attention when they (like humans) are too preoccupied when brutalizing their own like any good bar fight.

It is in that inevitable swell and tide, that someone comes by to grab at his wrist. Blood smears across their fingertips, he can tell, their skin far warmer than his own. Still, there is something in the way he turns that is too alert for someone who should be drunk by now — the bottle remains kept tight as a means to defend himself, not necessarily from —

There's something that goes askew at the corners of his vision. The whole the scene seems to shiver and jerk, body allowing for the draw back above the height of their hissing. ]

They'd never eat me anyway, [ he clips back, the glimmer of his teeth against his words. His expression cycling from mystified to bitter — to something else implacable as he tugs against her grip reflexively. His wrist is cool, a contrast to the own blood he produces. He snorts. ] I told them to feed on their own fucking selves.

[ Fuck them. Fuck these spiders. Fuck this situation. Fuck the fact he's supposed to just be a simple human, home, fighting things scarier than these pieces of shit. But, he's not saying no — he's agreeing to it just for the faint shred of desire to make sure this goes right for him. For Akira. He's agreeing to make it less of a demand, like it was something he'd already worked out on his own. ]

[bivariant]

I suppose they just couldn't comprehend your joke.

[ To take pleasure in bloodshed was beyond her sensibilities, more in line with what she expected from the Aranean race. Yet, there he is -- something like savage delight etched across his brow and mouth, and Cheris frowns at the sight of it. There is nothing pleasing about watching anyone, or anything lay fatal waste to its surroundings. Even when she and Hei hunted down the drumcrown at BASE, it was with swift, decisive movements that left it no room to suffer. This place? This is a place given to suffering, and she won't be a part of it. Which is what leads her to Ryo, and leads her to seize him by his wrist.

The blood doesn't bother her. Not even the Aranean's blood and limbs bother her ( she has seen the result of amputation guns, she has studied the corruption spread by those destructive threshhold winnowers -- ), it is the sight of Ryo's smile, and Ryo's subsequent misery that bothers her. ]

I don't want to test the limits of their aversion to our flesh, [ and she leans back, a sharp, fluid motion that precedes the sudden smash of a glass against the wall between them. A glass that has come flying across the room, sent into motion by the thundering forms of furious, brawling Araneans and whatever else has been too slow, caught up in the churning mess of limbs. She does not let go of him, choosing instead to press him forward, along the wall. Skirting the border of the fight, openly positioned between him and the worst of it. Her motions are instinctive, hard-wired to gauge the field and move through it unhindered. ]

Out the window. [ She says, as the heavy body of a wounded Aranean hits the tables before them and takes out her view of the door. Even as the legs scramble, the female moving to right herself before her opponent descends upon her, Cheris strips off her coat, wraps it around her forearm and slams it through the window with a crack, a crunch and a scattering of glass. ]

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | closed to minatsuki.

[reillumination]

[ if ryo asuka — or tennou vergilius maro — had to be designated as unstable in the hierarchy when he wasn't thrown in the basement of it all, at least he had one thing going for him: he was typically immaculate no matter the scuffles or blows. the casual dialing in of his already present paranoia and his ensuing defensiveness also aided him here, if the way his words left his tongue was any indication. spiders, when they weren't scanning his potentiality or clacking their mandibles at what "magic" he supposedly stored, naturally fled him as though he were cursed.

and he might as well be, he's thought more than once. it's difficult to bear, when more than once he's woken up in terror of things he can't remember and things he couldn't since arriving here — if he even slept at all.

today was a day of chance that he brushed paths with minatsuki. as was typical, most spiders scuttled back on chitinous legs, their trains and fabrics billowing far and out of the way of even the barest brush of his fingertips. it was all the better that they let him go and stray, even if it meant being barricaded from almost anything of interest. well, that is, up until now.

now, he's in a jewelry shop with minatsuki, who is taking her time to browse through the wares. ryo, on the other hand, only glances briefly at the rows of earrings and rings — bracelets and necklaces, some far too large for a standard human. ]

If I wanted to shoplift, I would have done it already.

[ it comes up suddenly, but it is obvious who it is directed to. the longer they've lingered, the longer they've drawn attention for being such an odd grouping. the spider at the door is eyeing ryo in particular with a growing intensity. ryo doesn't even spare it a glance, but he's more than aware that it's there. after all, there's something in the set of his jaw that betrays how irritated he's getting. ]

[jailbirds]

[ if they're going through all this bullshit, she's not coming out of it without something to show for it. since there are no nurseries to buy plants from that she could take back to BASE, and nowhere that makes clothes fit for a humanoid body, she's pretty much left with jewellery to look into. these Araneans might be a pain in the ass, but they do make nice accessories.

she hadn't planned to be doing this with Ryo in tow, but when they ran into each other, he'd had his sights set on the marketplace too, and it made more sense to explore the place together; COST got on their case about sticking to pairs, after all. and while she's the top of the food chain around here, Ryo is — something else. she doesn't know what. she doesn't ask him, either, because she doesn't need to know. all she needs to know is that he gets undue attention from their gracious hosts, and so when she hears him snap at the doorman, she goes to grind the problem out under her heel in the way Hanamira Kougousabi would: by placing her fingers lightly on Ryo's shoulder and stepping up beside him like some grand noblewoman. ]

I'm sorry, are you casting doubt on my companion? [ one hand held delicately at her chest, she smiles with a little bit of teeth, the kind of knife-sharp expression that's a clear threat beneath the saccharine sweetness of it. ] Because I would take it as a personal insult if you were.

[ she might only be human, but she's both female and artificially-enhanced, too, and that's enough to turn the Aranean at the door away with a few words of excuses: that he didn't mean any offence, of course, but one can never be too careful with those types. when it seems certain that Ryo won't attract attention from that particular one anymore, Minatsuki claps him on the shoulder briefly and goes back to fetch the pairs of earrings she'd taken a fancy to, since she doesn't want to stick around any longer. it only takes a moment to make the purchase, and she's appropriately courteous to the salesperson before she sweeps out towards the exit, linking her elbow with Ryo's on the way whether he wants it or not. she's already learned that the stares slide off easier if it looks like he's taken, in whatever way; they go from predatory to curious, which is a precious distance to hold onto.

once they're away from the jewellery store, she drops a little of her persona, although the way she's carrying herself doesn't change. ]

They're so fuckin' annoying, huh? [ she clicks her tongue, looking at the two sets of earrings she bought — one more elaborate flowers, and the other simple jewelled studs. ] Overpriced, too. A hundred bucks.

[ but she does like them, and she needed earrings for her own sake. besides, she's used to spending money however she likes; and now she can do it without the threat of poisoning hanging over her head, too. ]

[reillumination]

[ it isn't to say that Ryo is a passive part, as much as he knows he needs to bite his tongue for the sake of everything else. it's difficult, to let others steer for him — to let them this close. the touch she gives, even through the thick of his coats, makes his skin prickle. it makes his muscles wind tight, the cut of the glare toward the salesperson Minatsuki now handles with professional ire almost collapsing like footfalls on weathered metal, a thin sheet of glass. he almost doesn't hear what she says when she slaps him on the back, a job handled, and it takes what it has in him not to pivot out of it and listen to the baser instinct to push back.

even still, he steadies himself — as much as he can steady himself these days — as Minatsuki continues to browse and eventually goes about her purchases. it is easy to see what she is, the spiders all know it too well. despite being a human (or presumably one), she skirts through restricted sections with ease with occasional stopping, particularly with someone as "loathsome" or "peculiar" as him at her arm. it is truly the brevity of these exchanges that saves him time and again, prevents him losing that edge — the strong always looking to consume the weak, like everything else in nature. this is a path.

still, he tolerates the continued point of contact as much as he can. it makes him itch, makes his posture all the more appropriate for the spiders and their cultural context as they wander on through the rings, searching for something — Ryo'd mentioned he was interested in weapons some time ago. ]

Yeah. No kidding. [ it comes a touch tenser than usual, his mouth pulled thin and tight. he won't quite look at Minatsuki, but there's the faintest tremble to his lashes as he keeps his eyes ahead. it serves two purposes in the end: he also doesn't have to make eye contact with the spiders that might see him as an entertaining topic of conversation or a reviled individual. there's the hard draw to stuff his hands where they belong in his usual pockets, but this attire affords no such comforts and no such comforts are similarly afforded anywhere on this pit of a planet. ] Maybe we should have considered shoplifting after all.

[ not that he's above that. he's done far worse than that. still, they are quite pretty, he supposes. he understands aesthetics to a certain extent, after all. ]

[jailbirds]

[ that makes her bark out a laugh that falls much more on the side of Minatsuki Takami than a refined lady like Hanamira, but she knows what the safe edges of her act are, how close she can tread the line between those two people; as long as she's still carrying herself the right way, this particular audience doesn't care about the smaller details when she's not engaged with them. it's not the same as it was playing the wolf in sheep's clothing back in Wonderland, where she had to be convincingly meek, non-threatening at all times. ]

Fuck, I wish. [ they have to play nice for COST, and that probably means not causing a diplomatic incident by stealing their expensive shit. she doesn't have any pockets to hide things in, anyway; not even a clutch to go with her outfit.

she knows that Ryo doesn't like having her this close any more than she likes being this close. it's obvious that the guy isn't particularly touchy-feely, and she can respect that in any other situation. she isn't used to this either, holding onto someone in a way that isn't dragging their body around in the middle of a fight. and even as a child, she didn't like to be touched, knowing that everyone had some kind of ulterior motive, that nothing was genuine in the end, that she could be hurt at any time. and in Wonderland — well. she would be hurt at any time. she hasn't really gotten out of that survivalist mindset yet.

so she gives Ryo as much space as she can, even while keeping up the act. she holds his arm with the pads of her fingers, rather than wrapping her hand around; she stands a little ways apart from him instead of being pressed to his side, like she's keeping distance for propriety's sake. enough to stake a claim on him for the eyes of any passing Araneans, and enough to give both of them some breathing room. she knows that kind of tension in the set of his jaw, biting down on his stress, and sympathetic is a strong word, but. she gets it.

as she eyes the shops they're heading past, she hums, thoughtful. ] Maybe I should pick up a knife too. Something shitty is fine, but it's not a bad idea to have a back-up like that...

[ it never bothered her in Wonderland, because if she was ever in a fight, then they were always going to be fights between fellow Deadmen. who the hell wouldn't be bleeding even if they weren't the first one to draw it themselves? but against an enemy that doesn't fight like her, and a shadowy thing like the Regency that supposedly might know her — it occurs to her that she doesn't want to be in a situation where she can't draw her own blood. all they'd have to do is take her earrings out and she'd have no trigger for the weapon she uses. she doesn't need anything extreme like Crow and his stupid blade-ring, but... keeping a knife in her boot doesn't seem paranoid, when she thinks of it like that. ]

1d(irection);

[verumdicit]

[ Meliorn goes and goes willingly, being taken by the elbow. He'd mistook the to spiders arguing for him, in his hubris, and had spent a brief moment listening in awe. It quickly becomes apparent they're not, of course, and so when Ryo pries him away he follows willingly. ]

I'm used to heritage being of importance, but not quite like this.

[ Is that an actual attempt at a joke? Either way, they seem safe now, and Meliorn smoothes his outfit out. Still vain. ]

1d(erful)

[reillumination]

[ That he follows willingly is better than not. Ryo's grip would be considered loose by most standards, almost as if touching someone and being touched is stimulus he is largely unaccustomed to — the tension in the lines of his body almost palpable even as he relinquishes Meliorn's arm.

In truth, he'd have rather they argued over anyone, but him. But, Ryo exists as an anomaly in ways he cannot yet grasp. In a system so rigid, he should be without such issues. But, he isn't. He isn't and the running loop of his explanations is often not enough by the end of the day, his chest tight and throat dry. Here, were he able to loose the entirety of his "status" to another who wanted it, he'd grant it without complaint of it. Take it, as far as he was concerned. His focuses needn't have been complicated with such trivialities as that, but at the same time — there was something in him that curled and seethed at the prospect of being treated as lesser, that recognized itself in the whole of the rebellion that permeated the spider's existence. But, that part is silent. At least, for the moment.

Still, he half-wishes he hadn't left his cigarettes back in his quarters, shoved under his formal clothes where the servants would not touch them. Ryo had no interest in sharing or giving up his vices to anyone, unless he so elected to. And what's more, the laugh that bubbles up from behind is ribs is a singular note — short and sharp, his eyes too bright, too wary as he glanced through the dim about them and listened to for the crawl of many limbs — the echoing of footsteps, air heavy and thick with the residual life left in the old bones.

He pulls back into himself, cautious not to touch the walls and sully the clothes he wears. Normally, he wouldn't care. But, he has to here. He has to. He briefly swipes his tongue toward the corner of his lips. It doesn't, remarkably, drag any dark blue with it. ]

Heritage has never not been serious, [ he says, a little more sober (though that's questionable) than before. ] Though, I've found money has gotten to be just as serious.

[verumdicit]

I find money is more of a human thing. [ Of course everyone has to pay bills, but vampires have always stuck to selling historical pieces, warlocks trade potions and fortunes, seelies exist in another realm entirely and werewolves just don't give a shit.

Meliorn takes in the other's appearance - while he is always aesthetically pleasing and easy on the eyes, there's something else. An urgency that had been missing at the Gallipoli party. He has the strange suspicion that it was there before whatever had just happened happened. ]

I'm used to caste systems, but I'm not used to being on the bottom of it.

[ There's just a hint of bitterness, and his hand moves up to sweep some hair out of his face. ]

Have you been faring better than me, for the most part?

[reillumination]

[ Meliorn isn't incorrect. That tension has always been there. It's been there for months now, ground into his skin like the blood and the ichor that has drenched him through on more than one occasion. All Ryo has known for a long while now is war. War that makes these separately seem small — pointless in comparison. And now, he's here to even have a future at all. Again. He's really started to wonder if God really does hate him.

Even still, he'd have noticed on other occasions perhaps that Meliorn was just as pleasant to look at, but the strain and the stress he's experienced in the past few days only brings him moment to moment when he's outside his quarters. ]

I'm fine, [ he says. It comes automatic and effortless, expression shuttering. There's a tightness in his jaw on the right side, almost as if he's tucked the inner meat of his lip between his teeth between bouts of speaking to soothe himself. He takes a slow breath through his nose before glancing down at the narrow cobble in the corridor he'd dragged them into, scuffing a heel against the stones. His mouth quirks at one corner, the bitterness of it reflected in his eyes as he glances back up from under his lashes. ] I've never been good at following systems anyway.

[ He's been like that his whole life. Even when he was kinder, sweeter — Ryo had struggled to do anything that fell in line with expectation. ] But, that's true. Because of their laws, money is the newest way humans assert power. [ Growing up in Japan, Ryo would have have had trouble had his father wasn't wealthy. ] For them, it can even make them look past heritage, if you've amassed enough fame behind it.

[ He'd know that one too well. He'd gotten lucky that his father was also a noted Japanese scholar to boot. With his mother being American, his appearance was unusual. It wouldn't have done him any favors. ]

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | closed to ashitaka.

[reillumination]

[ In Gallipoli, there had been the moon.

There had been the inset of stars, the muted lines of archaic coordinates — something to map out against the salinity and the shore. In Gallipoli, he could find true North, could scrape out the bow of Sagittarius, could sweep the curve of the horizon and know the lay of continents. He could tangle his fingertips in the internalized notion of distance, pull at the threads of memory. He could weave his way back home.

But, here — here, where they are, Ryo cannot discern the order of constellations, cannot see before him the warm pass of a gloaming with its hours gold and long. Here, where they are, there is only the impression of night and day. Without true end, the dim runs pale and cold.

There is nothing here that reminds him of anywhere. Not truly. Like a faded afterimage, he can see the remains of human constructs — the impression of their skeleton, gone to the arid Earth. What infinitesimal existence they’ve left to eke out, they eke out in the umbra and the frigid poles. In passing, he wonders more than once if that is what humanity will come to back home — if that will be all there is left should fear and hatred infuse their hearts, their souls.

He wonders if they would think this kind of life is worth living at all. He wonders if it is worth living it here, kept still and marmoreal in the press of a spider’s shadow. Like Medusa to those foolhardy few who believed that they could slay her, their sallow vessels dotted caverns and passages, words halted in their throats.

Had they throats left to speak with, that is. A better fate, perhaps, than being worn like a macabre mask — all too reminiscent of the contortion of blood and bone he’d come to know.

An evening finds him here, in nondescript quarters in his nondescript room – entirely impersonal sans the ashtray he keeps on his desk, a bottle of some amber liquid beside it. It’s almost like whiskey, if he hopes hard enough. It burns the same on his tongue as he takes a slow draught from his glass, body balanced on the sleek surface of his desk – legs crossed at the knee, heeled foot bobbing. Agitation from the day is made duller by imbibing, at least, and eventual conversation in the rings and a little nudge in the wrong direction had led Ashitaka here.

He supposes now is a fine enough time for a drink, which Ryo extends to him after a fleeting moment, his mouth ticking up at one corner. It isn’t anything, but reflective of what he has been saying all night. ]

It’s probably a matter of time before we receive invitations, [ he says, with the typical evenness. His eyes aren’t quite on Ashitaka’s, but cast to the doors that lead out to the courtyard – the curtains are fastened, tightly closed. ] There’s been more talk of them over the network.

[ Distaste makes rougher the smooth edges, posture still altogether tense even here. ]

iii. c

[prizeneck]

[A very steady hand slots underneath where arm meets chest, and pushes Ryo upwards, rather than pulls him back. It's a very quick reaction in comparison - someone is used to dealing with those that linger back in shock to sudden, dangerous happenings.

While Mamoru basically carries Ryo out of spiderly leg range, chin to shoulder as he listens to the scuffle more than watches it, he doesn't really tell him anything. When they stop, he just watches carefully. He cares very little about the politics - he only has one function in life, after all. He's taking in movements, searching for weak points, where balance becomes askew.]

yeah ryo loves/hates this a normal amount

[reillumination]

[ The pressure of a hand upon him jolts him.

Like the tension of tides releasing to rush back to shore, the momentum of that sudden awakening crashes through the whole of his body. The absence and relative silence that had rung about his ears in those scarce and fleeting moments seems to have vanished entirely, like mist off the sea. Burned under the sun of this reality, Ryo jerks against the way Mamoru tugs him out of the fray, freed from the stupor that in all the ways felt as though anomaly. ]

What was I— [ he gets out, words almost inaudible against the scrape of legs and the clacking of mandibles — eyes are wide against the continuing sway of chitinous bodies he would have once thought an impossibility. There's nothing new here, not for Ryo. There's nothing new in the vying for power, the desire to conquer — to rule. He'd seen it before, in the burst of scales and claws. The way a person's heart, their body could be consumed by an outside foe just looking, looking —

What was he doing? What was he thinking? Why wasn't the terror he feels now in the chaos of all that surrounds without plan enough to survive or survive with— what was he doing? What was he doing? He squirms, disoriented and disjointed, almost dizzy with the sensation of being nudged at all.

No, it was important. This was something important. He needed to take this in too. ]

i feel like i should be gomen

[prizeneck]

[The last time he had been close enough to this kid, Mamoru had no trouble to sense the tension, the restlessness, to the point that this moment of inertia is a stark contrast.

He's not surprised. Fight or flight doesn't always apply to the same situations, and different contexts lead to different outputs - as he had discussed with him, actually, in the post he had broadcast a couple of days before. It's a different situation. The aggression that grates but doesn't kill, surrounds slowly and sticks to your skin like molasses, drives you to the edge slowly but surely, until it's too late and you're running only on adrenaline. To the shock, a flash of a sudden kill, the burst of a quick motion.

It's never a matter of who reacts better, it's a matter of how and when.

So Mamoru calmly lets Ryo go, that same hand that moved so fast moving away with no rush.] All this composure for shit. [He can't help but snort at the display. Too many rules made for frail structures, and it applies to everything.]

never be gomen

[reillumination]

[ There's something that aches at the bottom of his heart. Something like a lifetime tucked away in the quiet of a basement — dust upon all he might have once adored. It makes his stomach lurch, the flat of his palm coming up to feel out his pulse beneath the cage of his ribs. His fingers can't find what they seem to be seeking and his breathing comes in slow, a repetitious and monotonous thread far removed from himself. He sees and hears what Mamoru says, but the words won't come to him. They sit dully on his tongue, like stones thrown that miss the mark of a placid pond. Nothing breaks the surface.

When he does start talking, it isn't to Mamoru. It's a soft mumble, something that glances the lines of: What was I doing? Why didn't I move back? beneath the clatter and clamor of bodies, his brows furrowed and mouth down turned. His hand stays where he'd placed it, up against his chest.

All this composure for shit, the man had said.

Something in him blooms up darkly, grows at the base of his throat.

He laughs, more with the bob of his shoulders and the exhalation of breath. ]

Yeah, [ he says. Yeah, he echoes again, a whisper against the dull crack of bodies being torn into. He wonders how the exoskeletons would feel beneath his own hands, fingers working under the plates -- the thought stills in another burst of a muted laugh.

This is the way it's always been. Power is power and death is death. ]

[prizeneck]

[One thing Mamoru would have to grant the Araneans was the viciousness of their aggression. Take no hostages, have no mercy. They're efficient killers, even if the flare and finesse of before did not exist in the carnage in front of them.

With the scraping of stiletto-like talons across the smoothness of the flooring, leaving scratch marks deep enough for the projection into his eyes to acknowledge the indentations, he barely pays attention to Ryo's mutters. He's taking in where the Araneans attack, where are the soft and weak spots, the way their weight shift and balance with every motion, what works and what doesn't.

He's picturing himself moving within the fighting. If he went to the left he would die with a punctured lung, if he moved like so, he'd behead one of them--

And there's something that's similar to killing intent beside him, yet it tasted foreign in the back of his tongue.

It's intangible, and very much out of his reach to figure out what it really is, but it's there, and the kid seems to be the origin of it. He feels as if the kid is standing on a different land, suddenly, even in his vicinity.]

Hey. [He knows he doesn't like orders, so he poses him a question.] What are you learning with all'a this?

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | semi-closed.

[reillumination]

[ It’s never chance that brings others to Ryo’s door — a shake of the dice or the spin of the wheel. It’s a commonality, a sort of desire for something other that what was laid out before them. It’s the thick air of the rings below, the honeycombed alcoves — the teetering weight of the hierarchy, pressed up against their shoulders and against their backs. It’s the propensity to escape the locking up of musculature, the endless and glistening eyes. It’s the temptation toward relief.

It’s always dim, but dimmer still when most wander by. Against the closures of the courtyard doors, the fabric pulled tight and fast – the wan light cuts a strange path across the quarter’s floors. Each and every residence a clear and woven duplication, Ryo makes no stake to call the room his own. There’s nothing personal to be found, no signature marks – save himself perched up upon the desk, a half-filled ashtray and liquor at his left. It leaves those who have come in here room enough to sit where they choose to or where they must. Despite the cigarette against his lips, the filter stained a startling blue, he’s already pouring another glass of alcohol to chase away the prevailing atmosphere of gloom.

He’d learned quickly that tolerability was achievable through means to blur the harsh edges of his own thoughts. He’d learned quickly that even if there was nothing else, no comforts of home to lean upon, that the impact on body and bone was always replicable through the use of vices – here and elsewhere. And so, it seems the same now as Ryo takes a slow drag off his cigarette once he determines the amount of liquid in the glass is sufficient. Better not to ask where he’s gotten it, as he extends it to whoever has come to join him, his other hand taking up the smoke to rest against the ashtray, smoke curling loose and languid. ]

It’s getting late for them. [ His eyes flicker toward the front door, the pale of the light swallowing up the blue of his eyes – they're almost grey against the shadows cast-off. ] Did they finally scurry off? [ He means the insistent spiders that are crowding lately beyond their doors. Ryo has always found those who would intrude on his privacy abrasive and meddlesome — something he thinks he could have dispatched easily had this had all occurred on a field he was familiar with. His voice gives hint at the thread of irritation as he crosses one leg over the other, a heeled foot bobbing tunelessly.

That wariness in him never seems to go, but instead is amplified like the threat of movement in the darkness. ]

slides up to this because i'm Bad.

[decisions]

[ there's a sense of heightened watchfulness that prickles at the base of percy's neck as he'd made his way throughout the halls and among the araneans themselves. strange beasts that no simple training back on base could prepare them all for truly. it doesn't help that the inwardly-held nerviness causes whatever magic within him to seem to surge in very soft pulses, like its own heartbeat, like a stench for them to follow.

turning to ryo now, he thumbs a stray bead of sweat that's found it's way down his jaw, reaching down and dabbing it faintly on the matching lambrat. ]

I believe that might be the last of them for the evening at least.

[ he moves slowly from the closed door now, glancing at the glass being offered up and taking it between his fingers, moving it slowly around the perimeter of the glass. he tugs at the purple of his ascot, pulling it away from his throat and giving the glass itself a sniff. strong. good.

where ryo sits upon the desk, he pulls the chair and sits down in it slowly, back straight still, eyes weary behind his glasses. ]

Certainly just as hungry as aristocracy. Perhaps a bit more literal about it - [ he raises the glass ] where did you find this?

1b

[inconstantly]

[John is only trying to pass through when his way is blocked. At least the spiders aren't trying to eat him this time.

But unfortunately it's still someone he would rather not see devoured. Bollocks. Getting involved was always messy.]

I'm not going to go around, mate. That way is pretty crap. At this point it's the both of us or nothing.

0:)

[reillumination]

[ Getting involved was indeed always messy, which is why Ryo tried to do it as little as possible. However, it seemed that certain recruits had different ideas. Ryo's always been shy, deep and deeper down, but these days it is fear that makes manifest the harder edges of his personality — makes him colder where he would have once been gentle. It's the former that makes its appearance here, in the way he casts his eyes to Constantine who proposes hanging about as he tries to redirect the attention overall.

He's dealt with this kind of attention before. In a moment, they may be sent scuttling into the holes they crawled out of, beautiful yards of fabric fluttering after them. Ryo's mouth pulls thin, a little sharp. ]

Both ways are bullshit. There's no way around this way either. [ As if he has to gesture to the spider that's not too far from them. Peculiarly, the other that was there a moment ago seems to have discarded the idea entirely, hissing as she goes. ] I've tried it.

[ Still, he glances about for some kind of option — there's a junction of corridors, but that'll lead them in the path of the spider ahead. Even still, if Constantine is indicating that it is just as bad back there. ] How quick are you?

[ It seems left-field, but. Well. His eyes flick from the spider to Constantine and then to that junction he's earlier spotted. ]

[inconstantly]

I'm quick enough.

[Quick he could handle. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to dart away in a haste. It was sustaining a fast pace that would be a problem. As much as John protested that his heavy smoking habit was never an issue, running always brought out the worst in his lungs.

In the event that he needs to spark a flame for his pyromancy, John withdraws his lighter, palming it in his hand.]

You seem like you have a plan. Out with it.

[reillumination]

[ Ryo considers this for a half-moment, tongue clicking in distaste against his front teeth at another spider that makes her appearance alongside the one he's since pointed out. She's clacking and hissing away about something, too low to hear from their standpoint. Still, he supposes that it could be worse. It could be a demon in a mass of humans. It could be something that wears the skin of anyone without remorse and in ways that are far less apparent than the spiders angle at with their "methods." At least they're more honest about it.

Ryo's hand slips beneath both of his coats, as if to assure something is there as he takes advantage of their distraction. ]

Have you used the servant's paths? [ He gestures more with the tilt of his chin. He's gotten good at spotting them, it seems. They're too small most of the time for the spiders to fit down with much success in some places, considering how high some of the wares are staked. ] There's a junction up that way. [ He glances back at John again. ] All we need is a distraction.