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

Samus Aran | ota

[raisedbybirds]

» Aranean attention

The amount of attention COST was getting wore on Samus scarcely more than a few hours after arrival. Say nothing for the ridiculous formalities from clothes to pose and everything in between. No amount of training or failed glitter bombs could have prepared for the relentless conversations and questions. Most conversations go well... well enough. The Araneans are not shy asking about Samus's physique and how it was made, likening her to a tool or product. It's hard to not resent that viewpoint but Samus mitigates her simmering anger with pride and confidence.

"The blood of a warrior race flows through my veins, and I alone carry their genetic legacy." Yeah... okay it's corny but said with conviction. She goes on briefly as best she can without actually naming said race or giving any uniquely identifying details... which is hard when she is, as stated, the sole survivor. Part of her would love to clarify with trusted company but she wouldn't trust these spiders as far as she could throw them. (Which would probably be decently far, but I digress.) So long as it gets her a pass on conversation and formalities that's all she cares about.

Or here's the bit where Samus involuntarily reacts to the word "Aranean" itself--darting eyes, a jerk of her head, the most subtle of flinches--and said Araneans pick up on it but have no idea what it means.

She wouldn't object to a convenient (or inconvenient) interruption in any situation.

» Spider booze, spider booze, does whatever a

The massive alcoholic drought that was Gallipoli still lingers with her. Probably because the alcohol supply back on BASE, while significantly better, was still poor by her standards. She's not here to overindulge--this is especially is not the place for it, no. In the same vein however, she's hoping to eavesdrop in on lips loosened by liquor and she's not shy about encouraging any Araneans to a drink. Samus has a strong tolerance and she's confident in her ability to keep the utmost composure when it matters the most... even if it means dragging you into a cheer or round of shots.

» Huntsman

There's few things she likes about this planet and Aranean culture, but there is one thing she can have a deep unyielding appreciation for: hunting. An Aranean displays her most recent kill proudly, a Hthi with arrows lodged all along its body like a stretched out porcupine. It was not necessarily large but the Aranean boasts about how it put up such a voracious fight, no doubt because it was a mother protecting her eggs. The eggs were left alone, an act Samus can't decide if it further offends or pleases her. She remarks how she'd not even hunt a brooding Hthi in the first place, and would go for the largest and oldest beast in the territory instead.

The Aranean takes it as a clear challenge.

Before Samus knows it she's being dressed in leathers by servants and a bow is thrust into her hand. Perhaps the servants assume you're with Samus or perhaps you're in the right place at the wrong time.

» All the spiders clap along to the music

Everyone made it to the inner palace in one piece. It's an obligatory dance prompt. It's not the actual dancing she has trouble with, but even after the hours and hours of training and practice enticing her out onto the dance floor is still a struggle she tries to make not obvious. Her partner is missing; oh don't worry they'll be back very soon, they uh, just went to the bathroom. Wait, she has to go to the bathroom. How is she supposed to dance when there is a fancy hors d'oeuvres in her mouth? Actually she just got done dancing, you totally missed it. It was great. Damn shame. Can't expect her to hog the dance floor, that'd just be rude.

» Obligatory dinner prompt

She's alright at this--putting food in her mouth meant she didn't have to use it for droll conversation, though more than once she falters with the silverware, resulting in her, for lack of wanting to draw attention, slowly downing more wine as she subtly eyes what the hell everyone else is doing. She can't do wrong if she's not doing anything. That's going to work for. A little while. Probably.

» I've lost my appetite

There was a fleeting moment some time during dinner that she wished something more exciting would happen. As soon as that violence erupts she immediately wishes she could have taken that thought back. Everyone scrambles to a safe distance and once she's there she automatically takes up a defensive position, stupid dinning attire be damned, and stands in front of whoever looks like they might need a meat shield. "Move your feet. I'll cover you." She'll help anyone to their feet who may have fallen and it looks like she's equally as braced to fight. She's simultaneously disappointed and relived she doesn't need to join the fray.

There's probably some stray spider blood on her somewhere she's not going to notice for hours.

» Challenger approaching: WILDCARD

Probably Samus gets a challenge letter at some point. She's not exactly going to read it out in the open but she is going to read and re-read it more than once. Perhaps there are even letters. We can also do the wildcard prompts here, I'm game for anything.

Huntsman

[horsepowered]

Hunting here was an extremely different thing from Chiron's own time, but the familiarity of the weapons spoke to a level of universality that he found a strange comfort in. Likewise, sticking close to other COST operatives, especially in a space like this, was of utmost importance given that he was at a severe disadvantage within the hierarchy.

Chiron does hear the actual exchange between Samus and the Aranean about the recently dispatched Hthi, even as he studiously examines a bag meant to hold all manner of equipment. He assumes it to be the required aggression, all until he looks up and sees Samus completely clad in leather armor.

He doesn't dare speak yet, but he shoots her a concerned look that asks, Do you need to get out of this situation?

[raisedbybirds]

The servants work fast and assume he's with her the moment he does so much as shoot her a look, and offer leathers (much more paltry, unfortunately) and gear.

"He's uh..." She's about to protest so to not involve him in this but her mind reels back for a moment, considering if she doesn't that it might potentially put him at more risk with the overbearing female Aranean. She looks extremely eager to see what Samus does with her words, and quickly so.

"He's with me." SORRY CHIRON.

[horsepowered]

"I am indeed," he affirms.

That is the exact opposite of escape, to the point of sheer comedy. However, Chiron can at least rely on Samus' status within the spiderarchy to ensure that he doesn't get eaten, so there's that advantage at least.

At being offered the leathers, Chiron only sniffs, declining all of them and turning the question around to at least buy them both a few moments alone.

"Actually, I'd like to see any hunting bows that are in stock."

His tone is firm, not quite demanding, but making it clear that he'll accept nothing else. Gods willing, it'll take.

[raisedbybirds]

Wordlessly, one of the servants goes to fetch three bows of varying sizes; a long bow, a short bow, and a strange double-bow. All of them are carved intracately and seem to be strung with spider silk. Samus takes her time looking over them as well but it's just to look.

"Not quite my forte." She says as she preps her weapon of choice, one of the dueling pistols provided. "Can't say this is exactly my favorite kind of gun either but I'll make it work."

"Don't make excuses for doing badly before you've ever started." The Aranean half-hisses, half chortles. Samus just smirks in response. Her and Chiron are going to prove her so wrong.

[horsepowered]

Chiron takes his time with the bows, because of course he does. He considers each one in turn with regards to weight, how it fits in his hand, and what it is like to pull the taught string back and make to fire. When he releases, he notes the reverberation, and he repeats the action of drawing back and releasing a few times to get a feel for how fast he can use each.

"I believe the goal is always adaptation," Chiron murmurs softly, changing out the double-bow for the long bow again. He repeats his previous action at an even faster speed (almost too fast), and makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat.

"This one seems to suit my own abilities best."

Challenger

[prizeneck]

Obviously, he has to check up on his roommate. Samus has been, for the lack of better term, an easy presence to share a room with. He had been used to the mess and she seemed to have skin thick enough to let the most awkward moments that inevitably happen in a shared room slide. He's coming out of his room after a nap to find her in the hallway with her eyes fixed on the paper she's holding - and does he spot some sort of perfume coming from the letter itself or is it her?

He snorts. "Fan mail?"

[raisedbybirds]

The accommodations on Jhashch afforded much more privacy than back on BASE--relatively speaking, it's hard to shake the feeling there was always something in one of the tall, dark corners of the rooms or halls watching--but Samus took some strange unexplainable comfort that Mamoru wasn't too far away. She'd begrudgingly gotten used to his presence.

"Something... like that." It reeks of cloying perfume and invites her to a show of dominance. There's a kiss mark at the very bottom of it, blood red. "I'm pretty sure this wasn't made by lipstick."

[prizeneck]

He can't really see it - stain marks don't really register in the system, unless they coagulated to a crust. But he can do the math enough and has heard about threatening letters (love letters?) enough to know what she's referring to.

It's amusing, though he's a hypocrite: he hasn't found the letters sent to him amusing at all.

"What are ya gonna do about it?"

[raisedbybirds]

She sighs audibly and drags a hand through her bangs, resigning herself to this letter in some way even if she really doesn't want to.

"...To decline this kind of invitation would be a show of cowardice." A beat. "Unless someone else goes in my place." Which normally wouldn't even be a thought--as much as Samus doesn't like this, she has her pride. It's her burden to carry. Besides, whoever goes in her place would be representing her, and their failure would reflect on her poorly.

However, it's only a thought because delegating tasks is not an uncommon thing these Araneans do, especially the females.

[prizeneck]

Her frustration over the intricacies and power plays of this society resounds somewhere in his head. He hasn't gotten much challenges, a perk of not being but an ordinary human, but he did get a couple of letters from apparently some araneans who found some appeal in him being some sort of exotic specimen who challenges taboos for even toying with technology-- it all kind of creeps him out and leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He wonders how people like Juliett, whose specialty lies in forever being scrutinized and objectified, forever keep their cool.

"What kinda challenge is it?"

[raisedbybirds]

It leaves an awful taste in her mouth as it wasn't unlike her history with the Galactic Federation... but unlike then, she can't escape from that now. No slipping away into deep space when it and all the red tape with it became too much to bear.

"She speaks of desiring intimacy... with my body, though a show of strength." She didn't think the female Araneans swung that way; after all her body could not provide them the ability to fertilize any eggs, though it would incubate them all the same, probably. Samus gets the impression this particular Aranean may have had a slightly expanded palate compared to your average cannibalistic one.

"Kind of mixed signals there." Or. You know... just gay.

[prizeneck]

Mamoru's eyebrows shoot up, and the corner of his lips shoot down, in a scrunched expression where he's part shocked, part second-hand embarrassed, part amused and yet, definitely grimacing. While he's not entirely someone who understands that part of society, he can't help but feel a little for Samus.

"If it's any help, my specs got a love letter," he shrugs. "It was in braille, addressed to me but... seems like they kinda dig these better."

A sigh. "Whatcha thinking of replying?"

Spider booze

[thoughtimight]

It's difficult to be left to her own devices in the night. She's used to the warmth of a home: the smell of mama's cooking still lingering and the comfort of knowing her father would be out on the porch in the morning keeping watch. None of that has followed her here; it's only a hazy memory now that keeps her company as she walks alone.

Tonight the rowdiness of the bar has attracted her. Her eyes unweary, she wonders if she might find anything worth noting while everyone else is asleep. At first she's content to sit, turning her head to one side or the other as others come and go as she pleases. It draws attention drastically, and she decides to hide herself behind a menu to immerse herself in the scenery.

When the woman next to her, a face she can recognize from base, orders a round of shots Dolores finds her conviction again. This is a mission she hadn't expected to find. Picking up one of the small glasses carefully, she observes the liquid inside before making eye contact with her fellow recruit, nodding to suggest support. Then she downs the entire glass--

-- and spits it out immediately all over the counter.

ohhh my god I love this

[raisedbybirds]

The spray, innocuous as it might be in any other earthen bar--maybe would get a round of laughs and cheers or bellowed out insult from halfway across the bar before everyone went on with their business--is met here with a resounding silence. Glasses clink quiet and every head, every beady black eye turns to stare at Dolores. Even the bartender, an uthcki largely lacking a face, manages to look vaguely offended.

Their stares shift from Dolores to Samus, naturally, the human who bought the round in the first place. Like it was her fault. To her credit she keeps composure, even seems to thrive at the extreme risk of danger.

"An ancient Earthen custom! She approves of the flavor!" Samus shouts and clasps Dolores on the back. "Get her a fresh glass."

After a tense second or so it miraculously seems to work. The uthcki does as asked. The Aranaeans and other patrons murmur and laugh and glasses clink again. The bar is quickly filled the the same atmosphere it had before Dolores spit all over it.

Samus leans over and whispers, concern and annoyance lacing her tone equally. "What was that..."

[thoughtimight]

It's a terrifying stillness. The feeling of so many collective eyes on her as if the whole world fell away and left her standing alone. Her eyes remain wide as the other woman takes command of the situation with ease. Slowly but surely the rest of the world comes back together and things move along as they should.

"That was the worst thing I've ever tasted," her voice is a panicked whisper. Her hand finds the new glass quickly, hanging onto it as though it's the only thing keeping her alive at the moment. Under no circumstances will she touch the stuff again.

"Has it gone bad?"

[raisedbybirds]

Ah. That was the taste of inexperience. Aranean liquor was certainly stronger than most Earthen liquors (and Samus is tentatively assuming Dolores is from Earth or somewhere like it) but that was still quite a reaction. Samus's expression softens for a moment, just a furrow of her brow and a slow exhale from her nostrils.

"It burns your throat and makes your eyes water. It's an acquired taste."

Samus is of two minds in a situation like this; she feels a pang of pity but also has no idea who Dolores is. There was a very easy way to figure that out however, as her eyes settle back on Dolores's new cup.

"Try again, a slow tiny sip."

[thoughtimight]

Dolores remains adamant in her decision. A distant pang in her mind implores that she simply comply and make things easier: to trust without question. She wraps her fingers around the glass but does not lift it from the counter. Instead she watches the others around her drink for a few second, noting everything from the difference in the way people throw their beverages back to what color the fluid in the glass is.

Her eyes turn back to Samus. She seems to be the most logical one in the room-- or at least the easiest for Dolores to understand.

"Do you enjoy this?"

[raisedbybirds]

For such a relatively simple and innocent question it's the kind of question that gives Samus enough pause to think too much about it. Did she enjoy this? Well, yes... but why? Was it the burn and the way it made her eyes water, was it the feeling after and how the burn numbed other things, or was it because all the other Araneans were enjoying it and that was expected right here, right now?

"Yes." She answers simply, deciding that's more thought than that question really deserves. Better question: who asks such a thing?

"You don't have to try if you don't want to." She'll give that much out of sympathy, or maybe it was vague pity. Peer pressure probably mattered a lot to these spiders but it didn't matter to Samus.

slides in real late-like

[handsomefoil]

It's not a long shot to assume that Henry might be part of Samus servant force, as he dons a similar blue to his outfit and just happens to be standing within her near vicinity. He's not sure how he ended up raising a glass alongside her, but at least he knows her. That's always a relief.

He's had a glass already, and while the stuff is strong, he thinks he can handle his booze pretty well. Pulling a healthy sip, he glaces sideways at her. A particularly chatty and boozed up Aranean is rambling on about their latest hunt.

"Sounds impressive, I think?" Low and just enough for Samus to hear. Though he can't quite say if something is impressive or not without having seen these creatures themselves...

[raisedbybirds]

It's bait, a plot to get Henry to pick a side. Hers, clearly. Samus sees it but also doesn't want to play into it. There's still a lot of politics she's trying to understand here; words spoken between words and gestures never explicitly meaning what they outwardly mean. She's here to get everyone drunk and see what they look like when deception lacks inhibition.

"I heard Ykvaak took down a hthi twice that size." Samus says, cooly sipping her drink. The Aranean hisses.

"Mr. McKormick saw it. Didn't he?" She squints a little a Henry. THAT IS THE NAME HE SETTLED ON... RIGHT?

[handsomefoil]

He dang diddly-darn did settle on that name, and he's glad she remembers. The look he shoots her is one of assurance. There weren't many opportunities to sling his name around, especially for a no-name normie like him, so it's good to get it out there once in a while.

"I did," he says slowly, watching the Aranean but taking care not to stare too long into her eyes. "Was it really twice that size? I can't fully recall."

While he's all for picking a side just to see how it pans out, he also likes to cast a little doubt. Kinda dance on that fine line between the two. He's also not 100% aware of what Samus is trying to get out of this exchange, so, testing the waters here a bit.

dinner time

[pointedlook]

[ As always, Arthur had done his painstaking research. Or in this case, all his homework and necessary reading assignments. In dreamshare, he's garnered a certain reputation and he really would hate to lose out on any opportunity to keep it. Even if here, whatever he's accomplished in the past hardly matters.

(Pride or no, he's paranoid and wants to get it right).

Which means he's getting through the dinner with little error. It really helps that the silverware and table manners remind him of high tea, of fancy blueblood dinners; all things he learned on a job once.

Of course, that puts him in the position to help out recruits who are struggling a bit. Samus isn't someone he'd ever think couldn't handle her own, but watching her use the wrong fork for the third serving is just. Unacceptable.

Gently, he nudges his elbow with hers and murmurs: ]

The other one. With the bigger handle.

[raisedbybirds]

[Samus was acutely aware of her strengths and weaknesses, and knew this was something she needed to focus on during training. She suffered many glitter bombs to get to a passable presentation with all this etiquette. She was sure she was doing something right, finally. She had to be.]

...what?

[She hisses and looks around the table. Thinking she was right was her error. Everyone else was using the other fork. Why did no speak up sooner? To her credit she keeps her composure and smoothly switches forks. Hopefully no one noticed. Other than the guy who pointed it out.]

This is the most asinine thing. [Composure or not, she can't stop the rush of blood to her cheeks or the way her voice is accented with a frustrated growl as she murmurs back to him, thankful despite that.]

I'd just as well eat with my hands.

[pointedlook]

Nobility has a tendency to be that.

[ Asinine.

It is very stupid, in his opinion. But he's also American through and through; stuff like this is reserved for the extremely rich old money if that. Otherwise, they bucked the monarchy and all this bullshit ages ago. He doesn't really see the point. ]

You could. It'd make a statement at least. [ And wouldn't that be amusing? The shock of it all. ]

Until they decided to eat you for it.