Libertas - the name it chooses not to use for itself - knows it might come across as cruel to most. It knows it does, to some.

That is fair. It brings it no joy to know that, any more than it does to leave people languish, despite the freedom it stands for, across existence.

Or beyond.

Ib knows no more of the creations beyond its own than a sailor does of a storm-wreathed island on the horizon. It believes it could learn, but the circumstances are not such that it can do that. It should feel strange, for a being so far beyond time not to find enough to indulge itself, but then, a sliver of such a being losing its memories was not common either.

Remembering itself had felt not like coming home, but like realising it had always been there, despite thinking itself lost. Ib fancied that, hadit somehow gained a fraction of its true power before it had returned to the Free Fleet, it could've remade its mind.

Alas, such things did not simply happen. Sometimes, there were stories to be told. The Dream that is existence does not always make sense - dreams are dreams, even those of Makers - but when it develops structure...

Ib has its role to play, and is free to act, within that role. Perhaps, once that is done, it will be able to spread the Idea it is across existence, but, until then, it has its duties to perform in its corner of the dream.

The Creator of all Ib knows talks in its sleep, sometimes - for lack of a better term. Mortals, and some immortals, perceive those ur-words as events of cosmic scale and significance, but Ib sees more clearly. It can hear them, not their echoes, and glimpse them, not their shadows. From these, it tries to decipher the insights the sleeping Maker unknowingly offers.

It -Ib th thinks - is going to play a role, at the end (whether the end of all, or the end of finitude, remains to be seen), but it will be merely one of an endless gathering. It will only stand out because of its deeds prior to that. This is both fate and ambition, for Ib knows what it must do, and it will be damned if it falters.

Learning this - "this" being the story of creation - is not about it was sobering at first (something even worse than what it might or might not do?), but after closer reflection, it became amusing, in a reassuring way. Looking back, after it regained its memories but before it truly grasped them for the first (?) time, it, maybe possessed by vanity, had thought its tale that of a hero, the hero.

A powerful, innocent, even naive being, unable to remember its past or know itself, guided by an older friend and bonding with a newfound, aloof one...for a time, it almost missed the fact it was Ryzhan who mattered, in this regard.

It is all about Ryzhan. That much is a fact, even if the details are harder for it to reach than the stars are for the things that crawled and burrowed in the ground.

At the end, Ryzhan would do something - or not - and everything would change. If Ib is to guess, it was going to be about memories, his or someone else's. Whether his magic was going to be involved or not (though, even if not, Ib was happy its mage friend was more at peace with himself nowadays...to a degree. Even if his power would not be needed, he enjoyed having it, and anything that made its friends happy made it happy), and Ib did not know, something was going to have to be remembered.

In a fit of pessimism, Ib thinks that, perhaps, the mage will get the chance to jot down everything that had been, before the end comes for everyone. Ib briefly entertains the thought, and its great shoulders rise in a shrug as it runs over water.

Better for all there was to be known, for once, for an instant, than to fade unfathomed.

It is, Ib reasons, not unlike how it is better to struggle and love and hate and die than to wither after a life of apathy. That a deathless being like it thinks of such mortal notions is, it believes, a good sign.

Were it more distant, perhaps it would act even less than it does, or not at all, letting everyone fend for themselves in the name of (a slovenly fool's idea of) freedom.

Ib laughs at itself. Self-deprecation helps ward off the arrogance that so often comes with power. Aye, aye, not resting on its laurels is all well and good (how much has it accomplished since its memories returned, truly...?), but bugger that.

Trying to forget about its friends by contemplating the end of all things was about as useful as fretting over them like a mother hen.

Ryzhan, the who is to be the centrepiece of what is coming, is facing off with his own past - again. Not that Ib is one to talk about dredging up old hurts; it does not seek to disparage the mage, but it regrets that he still, still has not made peace with what lays behind him.

Ib has not, itself, it if is being honest. Sure enough, it spared - no other word does it justice - its creator and their fellows, but it was not out of forgiveness. Ib does not think it, though it is vast and contain multitudes, has it in itself to forgive them.

But it is sure they will not die without its forgiveness - except, perhaps, literally.

Ib's face morphs into a smile, as it often does when contemplating bright futures, then returns to its normal, featureless state, before becoming a frown.

The immediate future is not so bright, in any sense.

Ib only feels the air change at this distance thanks to its inhuman senses; the dark cloud on the horizon is still far away, for Ib's sight also extends far farther than most Midworlders'.

The air already tastes bitter to the giant, heavy and sulphurous. In the distance, within the smoke, it glimpses something broad and towering, Between the stench, the heat - the water is boiling for leagues around the island - and the rumbling that shakes the land and the water, Ib imagines a human might be tempted to believe the silhouette in the smoke a volcano.

Ib knows better.

Its journey, like travels such as it do, ends not when it crosses some well-defined distance, but when it is proper for it to stop; once the giant ceases focusing on its - tch - surface-level impressions of the island, the distance to it begins shortening.

The island almost seems to move closer, as if to meet Ib. Somehow, the grey being does not feel grateful.

It'd rather the place stay away, even if the reason it is here, quite unlike the reason it wishes it was here, requires setting foot on that sooty land.

Ib can practically feel the slavery, like chains tightening around its broad shoulders. Not a daymare (and the namesake of the first among Fear's daughters brings a smile to its face, despite everything), not a reminiscence of its time in the Free Fleet, but a reflex to what its senses tell it.

Ib can see the ties that bind, spun from power, crisscrossing the soil, the sea, the sky, linking all who dwell inside, below and above its destination together - and to the creature at the centre, surveying her domain in sated supremacy, like the queen of a hive.

It can hear the voices raised in spineless adoration, thanks to its animus, for they are still out of earshot. It can feel fawning excuse for love, burning as brightly as when it was born, brushing against the edges of its spirt.

"Just remember, Freedom," Mendax said, going for a moniker only scarcely less annoying than Libertas (it was not the word, Ib told itself; that was pleasing to the ear. It was the fact that it reminded the giant of its origin, and the purpose chosen for it). The schemer, who had rarely seen a path for creation's survival it hadn't taken, leaned closer, a smile, small and fond, unlike its usual wide, mocking grin, flickered in the shadows of its grey hood. "Some chains are worn willingly, and gladly. Not all devotion is forced."

Ib decided not to quibble with its brother by nature, for it knew Mendax was as stubborn, in its own way, as it was.

But that didn't make it less wrong.

* * *

Perhaps, Ib muses for itself, the Free Fleet's fears are unfounded.

That statement would seem obvious to anyone who knows of them. Of course, people choosing for themselves, in the spirit of true freedom, is not a threat to anything but the Fleet's tyranny.

But their fears about Ib, the grey being thinks, do not make much sense, either.

Mistreating someone you created, shackling them for fear of them overthrowing you, cannot lead to anything but a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Fleet's destruction, such as it will be, is long in the coming, however, Ib is sure, and its instincts agree. Whether they will be obliterated or changed, willingly or for their own good, are just details.

But its creator's worries, about Ib crowning itself as a god-king of...anything, sound so ridiculous now, even more so than they did when shared with the giant.

'I,' Ib says to itself, 'was not made to be worshipped.'

Truth. That was not the purpose its maker had in mind, and the grey being's nature is even less inclined towards such now.

Around it, Midworld shifts subtly, while in the deepest layer of creation, the shape that is the Idea of Freedom turns, displaying a new, old facet.

No crowns for Ib, no hands raised in prayer. It is content with this (it tells itself).

The giant's gaze, eyeless until it reminds itself to mind its companion - not all are familiar with its blank visage as its crew - drops to its self-styled, self-appointed guide.

Ib does not believe there is any realm, in creation or beyond, where it could get lost, for that would be akin to being trapped, and itis freedom itself. However, it is only proper, it supposes, that it indulges the...native.

This is not politeness, it tells itself once more. It's just about avoiding fuss. Worshippers of anything, in its experience, tend to be fussy, especially when it comes to the object of their obsession.

Ib cannot pretend to understand it in anything but the most abstract sense, and it does not want to learn more. Maybe, at some point, it will open up one of these faithful, to see what makes them give themselves up, placing their destiny in their mistress' claws, but until then? It has no desire to foul its mind with this kind of insanity.

'You seem upset, stranger,' its guide says in a high, trilling voice. It's strange, Ib thinks: you'd expect a matronly woman like her to have a deeper voice, warbling or mannish, but she sounds like a girl.

She - Qarkha; she gave her name and insisted it be used. What harm is there in humouring her? - is taller than most women Ib knows, as well as most men, as far as humans go. She was strong once, the muscles can still be glimpsed under the fat, but even with her round, aging body, she's far from weak.

Ib feels a twinge of annoyance. Qarkha's mistress insists she be immortalised - as if she isn't already deathless and eternal; so tacky - in song and painting and sculpture, but she does not even increase her worshippers' lifespan or vitality. Selfishness, probably, and cruelty is not unlikely either: you'd need either or both to ask to be treated like a good, not to mention a hefty amount of insanity to refuse to be called a deity, let alone say you are different from one.

But, Ib supposes, it is not that surprising for gods to be creatures of whimsy...even when they deny their divinity.

'Appearances can be deceiving,' Ib rumbles in reply, sounding gruffer than it intended. It'll do, it decides, even as it see the woman flinch subtly. Likely, she hasn't noticed it herself.

Would she have, even if her head wasn't filled with nonsensical dogma? Ib discovers it does not really care.

'A-Ah...yes, your shapeshifting' Qarkha says, trying to stand up straighter, pulling her cloak around herself like her dignity will follow - but there'd need to be some in the first place, wouldn't it?

Clearing her voice, the woman continues, 'Many come to our Mistress uncertain, unsure of their bodies, minds and spirits.' And remain broken in all but the first. Even that is not always true. 'But most of them remained here, and found all of themselves permeated by serenity.' At this, she clasps her hands together so that the sleeves of her robes slide over them, a trick the giant has observed people dress like this for, even if they hate the clothes themselves. A warm, happy smile brightens her doughy, dusky features. 'Why, my wife and I have found ourselves growing closer ever since we washed up on the shores of Mistress' domains.'

Ib lets the frankly appalling appellation slide, unable to think that it would've been kinder if the women had drowned like the rest of their fleet had, like Qarkha had told it earlier. 'What happens to those who don't find themselves...' Can it say the words without scoffing? '...permeated by serenity?'

'Hmm? Qarkha looks up at Ib, her movements as birdlike as her voice.

'You said those who remain become serene. What about the ones who don't? Why'd they leave?'

'Oh! Them.' Qarkha makes a dismissive sound, blowing a raspberry. It looks ridiculous, coming from a grandmotherly woman like her, and makes her look childish, not younger. 'Don't worry about them. Those too foolish to accept Mistress' grace,' Ib can practically see her turning her nose up, 'are turned away.'

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

'Peacefully, I'm sure,' Ib drawls.

'Well, of course! If they cannot behave and believe, they have no place here.'

Ib scratches its square jaw, for her benefit. Most humans can't tell when it's thinking. 'But what if, though they don't have it in themselves to believe, they are hungry? Thirsty? Sick, wounded, desperate? Does your...' is that damned temple going to get any closer? Ib swears, this is like its walk over the sea. 'Does your mistress turn them away, even then?'

Qarkha rolls her eyes with an impish smirk, as if the grey being shared a joke. 'Do you know who else was with Vreena and I when we arrived?'

What not? 'But you said you two washed ashore...?'

Qarkha stops, raising a hand and pointing two fingers at Ib. 'No other people were with us. But, so you might understand, I will speak of those who were as if they were people.'

Somehow, Ib doesn't think this is going to be something as harmless as pets that had to be put down. 'Do tell,' it says in a low voice, lower arms on its hips.

'Vree's parents - that is, those who brought her into the world, not our Mother - were not against our union. Like many of our fleet, they saw such marriages as beneficial when there were enough people to work and fight, since there was no chance of accidentally having children. My father was of a duller bent, but went along because he did not wish to be ostracised or abandoned.'

Ib can already feel an ugly scowl coming. 'Her parents had to leave because they wouldn't worship?'

'They would not leave, either,' Qarkha says briskly. 'They saw this bounty,' she gestures at the lush orchards and fields stretching into the distance, implausibly fertile even for such an island, whose soil is rich with volcanic ash. Drawing vitality from the metaphysical significance of that substance, most likely. 'And they said it would be insanity to send them back to the sea, when there was enough for everyone.' She huffs. 'Fools.'

'And why is that?' Ib challenges, trying to keep its voice down and its hands still.

Qarkha bites her lip, fingering the base of her hood. 'Do you know what it means to be faithful?'

Ib swallows its first three responses. 'Enlighten me.'

She nods, closing her eyes and inclining her head like a generous sage, or some nonsense. 'It means to put Mistress above everything, as is only proper. Mistress gives everything we need, and takes everything we don't.' Her eyes snap open. 'Enemies included. To believe means to accept her truth, and become capable of letting go of lesser attachments.'

'But you are still married?'

Qarkha shakes her head, fishing out a necklace from the depths of her cowl. On it, above a handful of baubles and beneath a dragon in flight, wrought in black gold, is a silk knot. It might have once been a pretty pink colour, and bigger, but now, it's almost white, and frayed. 'Do not misunderstand,' Qarkha says in a placid, patient voice. 'If Mistress demanded I cut my wife's arms off and beat her to death with it, I would.'

Ib manages not to punch her head off. 'Oh? And why is that?'

'I sense you disapprove.' She wags a finger at the grey giant as if it were a child. 'Do not. Only the most foolish do so, at the beginning, and only by shedding such ignorance can they hope to stay.'

Ib almost laughs out loud. She thinks it's here to convert?! 'I'll keep that in mind,' it chuckles, and Qarkha bristles, but holds her tongue, and so keeps it.

'Anyhow.' She puts the necklace back, and her hands return to her sleeves. 'Mistress would have a reason. It would not be my place to ask, though I would be honoured to be enlightened.'

Such blind trust, Ib can only draw a comparison with its earliest days. 'And would you not hesitate? Grieve?' Ib does not think it has ever known love like the one spouses share, but it cares for its friends enough that...

No. It would not kill one of them and not tell the others why. Not forever.

Qarkha giggles. 'Oh, Vree and I love each other, make no mistake, but what is the love of mortals compared to love for Mistress? Just like our hate, our amusements...our hopes and dreams and nightmares, it's so...petty, in comparison to her.'

Ib makes an unhappy sound. 'And you said you've been acolytes for months?' The passage of this island's seasons is artificial and carefully controlled, by obviously, this mistress.

'Mhm!' She rubs her forearms in a girlish, nervous gesture. 'We are hoping to be accepted within the year, lest we be banished for faithlessness.'

And there's the rub. 'And what would faithlessness entail?' Ib does not bother with a honeyed voice or friendly posture. If nothing else, she's probably aware, by now, that it doesn't like her.

'I've already told you,' she says calmly. ' 'Tis holding on to childish attachments instead of recognising Her greatness.'

This sounds so much like the archetypal fanatic's drivel, Ib is almost tempted to dismiss it out of hand - almost. But, if it hasn't destroyed the Fleet where it was born yet, it can withstand this conversation, rather than abandon its guide in order to find someone with more brains and less conviction.

Besides, ditching its guide wouldn't be taken well. It's, it can tell, one of those islands.

As such, it nods instead, squatting to be closer to Qarkha's height. 'So even if you said that she is the greatest being alive, and dwelt here in devotion to her, singing her praises and enjoying the bounty and protection she provides...you would be faithless?'

Qarkha claima that you would, indeed, be. 'For speaking is not the same as believing, and lying about faith is vile.'

Ib removes its hands from its knees and stood up straight. The temple - the Temple of Initiation, according to Qarkha - seems closer than ever, now that he understood more of this faith. As visual metaphors go, it could be subtler, but it serves well enough.

'Qarkha,' the giant says, 'you say you are taking me there so I may speak with your mistress, and I am sure that is true enough; but you're hoping I will join your ranks, aren't you?'

The acolyte smiles sheepishly, spreading her hands. 'A harmless deceit, you will agree, and easily seen through.'

And yet attempted all the same. 'Am I to believe this desire innocent, with you knowing what I am?'

At this, her gaze becomes bemused. 'You are a member of an actor troupe...yes? Large and able to change form...'

The first part, it revealed during its introduction, and the second even a one-eyed man could see. Did it underestimate her arcane sense? Ib knows she can see minds and spirits and what moves in them...is her subtle sight duller than it thought? 'And what if I told you I have great power?' it asks. 'Power to, were there no one to pit their will against mine, unmake this island? Would you not want me amongst your ranks then'

Ib senses a jolt of fear as it reveals a sliver of its abilities, but it is quickly replaced by something like eagerness. 'Even such a being like you might find purpose under Her...' Qarkha whispers, an almost rapturous look on her face.

Despite itself, Ib chuckles. 'I have a home to return to, one I am not looking to abandon any soon. This is a stop on my journey; I am here to put my skills to work, not remain.' Really, introducing itself as an actor should've tipped her off.

Qarkha's lips become a thin line, and she looks thoughtful. 'I suppose even Mistress might appreciate theatre, short as it falls of the celebrations meant to honour Her...'

It is good, Ib thinks, that it lacks the stereotypical actor's ego, or that might have offended it. Yet, even the most flamboyant of entertainers would tread lightly qround here, rather than denounce the grandness of those ceremonies.

This is not the sort of place Ib would have chosen to perform in. But it has its purpose, and Ryz and the captain have theirs. It would not do to fall short of them, when it was the one who sent them on errands.

* * *

By the time Ib makes its way through the temple's doors, it is alone; and in this place, as alien to its nature as it can be while allowing a fragment of free will to persist, it feels as lonely as before Mharra found it, in the rare moments of lucidity it enjoyed in those days.

According to Qarkha, people mostly come here when they are introduced to the faith (she capitalises it, and offers no alternative name. Not an uncommon occurence, in Midworld, though most "Faiths" do not maintain such a stranglehold on the worshippers' lives) and when they are accepted into the fold. For most travellers, meeting the island's Mistress quickly results into converting.

Usually, it has been told, people do not enter alone to talk, and usually, there are people who have long worshipped in the background, to subtly pressure the newcomers, Ib is sure.

This, then, is a double exception, for Ib is alone, and there are no watchers between or behind the great spiralling pillars holding up the roof, which resembles a pair of batlike wings folded over each other.

On the pillars, there are spots where it can be seen stone once flowed. Now, they hang off the main mass like wax on a cold candle.

The roof, also shaped by fire and claws, sports no such flaws, but then, it makes sense, doesn't it? Of course this self-effacing goddes wouldn't have a graven image of her wings tainted by imperfections.

Ib wonders if there might be more than ego at work, here. Another visual metaphor? The Mistress, held up by flawed beings? She...no, she wouldn't say she needs any kind of support, even if it were true, and she plainly does not need the help of humans.

The Mistress, exalted by those below her, then.

There is no trace of magic in the air or stone, no lingering enchantment. No spellcraft was employed here, but a dragon's flame and claws and tongue, to melt the bones of the earth and mould them.

Ib has observed enough dragons from afar to know young ones would not have the patience for this, and most of their elders would not have the desire. Of those dragons who were humanlike in thought (in truth, it was the other way around, given the ages of the species, at least in Midworld), most would have been unable to tolerate the questions and praises of weak mortals unable to understand them.

As good a reason to refuse worship as any, Ib supposes.

The Mistress is one of what dragons call the thinking kin, and an old one at that, given her prowess with dragonfire - as old as she is strange. If she is willing to demand adoration, why stick to one island? Surely her ego is not so easily sated?

The doors close behind Ib with a thunderous boom that would make mush of humans. As the thunderclap passes harmlessly over it, the grey being thinks this must be the result of a flair for the dramatic, for none of the people it has met on this island could have survived it.

They have no visible hinges either, or any other mechanisms, simply sliding from the sides of the temple's opening. Ib, despite its distaste for the dragon and everything she stands for, cannot fault the concept. It can easily imagine starved, half-mad sailors being awed by all of this, as if they'd need much convincing.

The Mistress awaits at the heart of the temple, lounging in something more nest than altar. To Ib's relief, there is no clutch of eggs surrounded by her wings or tail, waiting to hatch into a new generation of dragons she'd doubtlessly pass her nonsense on to.

Just a matter of taste, then. That is no problem. If her tastelessness had been dangerous, Ib would've fallen on the shore, when faced with that gaudy monument that resembles a volcano from a distance. It is meant to, it has been told, represent the Mistress' triumph over all enemies of her people, past and possible, hence the mound of indistinct shapes under her statue's claws.

Ib thinks it just looks like garbage atop garbage.

As Ib approaches, it sees that the temple is far larger on the inside than the outside, and for good reason: beings able to cross most cosmoses in the smallest amount of time there is would spend lifetimes just to cross half of the dragoness' pupil, and her eyes would be nearly impossible to see in comparison to her body, even if they weren't both dark as obsidian.

Indeed, Ib doubts Mharra, for example, would spot the difference between eye and scale, let alone the shades of black that comprises pupil and iris and sclera.

Dragons grow with age, in both piwer and stature. After their first millennium passes, they are tens of metres long, larger than most of Midworld's whales and able to swallow an elephant whole. How many eons, then, this being must have spent growing...

'Libertas,' she rumbles, 'come at last.'

'You've a name for me,' Ib replies, 'yet I've no name for you.'

'I suppose it is too much to ask that you adress me as my people do?'

Ib's face ripples into a frown. 'You already have me a nane I despise, and that is mine. You would give me two?'

She laughs, good-naturedly, and this is already unlike the confrontation Ib expected - aye, craved. Indeed, it hardly feels like a confrontation at all. 'Then, you can give me a name as well, and should I despise it, I will bear it in silence.'

'How two-faced,' Ib harrumphs, not willing to be undone by her disarming façade. 'Were I human, you would be demanding I bow and scrape and swear devotion, or depart.' It would spit, but there is no flyid in its form as might be found within a man's body.

'How hypocritical,' she retorts, still calm. 'Would you claim you are honest in your dealings with all, when you deceive even your crewmates?'

'Withholding the truth is nothing like lying,' Ib answers. 'And what I do for their good, and out of love for them, cannot be compared to what you oversee here.'

'Why?' she asks, amused. 'Do you think I hate my worshippers?'

'You certainly do not cherish them,' the giant replies. 'For they are merely playthings to you. Pets, maybe. But a gilded cage is still a cage.' It shakes its head, gesturing at the exit and what lays beyond it. 'If you needed this, any of this, you would be a mere parasite, if a vile one. But this is tyranny. What do you need their faith, when you can grow your own might at will?'

'Who does not desire love?' the dragoness asks.

'Love-?!'

'Freedom, wait.' She holds up a clawed paw, sniggering. 'I know you are incensed at being opposed, but that is no excuse for this misunderstanding. Aye, it seems almost...deliberate.'

Ib scoffs. 'You are not a trickster fit to deceive me,' it warns her.

'And I've no need to be, for I shall defeat you with the truth.' She stands up, spreading her wings, and her eyes gleam as she meets Ib's gaze. 'Tere are things not meant to be knkwn yet, even by us timeless ones, in this dream you inhabit. But that you miss the nature of the land you stand upon is merely willful ignorance.'

Oh, this ought to be good...

She goes on, despite its dismissive stance. 'First, you might name me after the Ashen Isle I rule, but that is your choice. As for you ignorance...' she sighs, giving it a fondly exasperated look.

Ib tries not to look baffled. Instead, holding on to its outrage, it says, 'What of it? Tell me how I am wrong, and I might even enter your service.'

She giggles at its offhand remark. 'Careful, my dear: once I have you in chains, I might never let go...' Her smile dims as she trails off, though it's still warm and wide. 'You seem to believe I'm some sort of unchallengeable despot, holding sway over a terrified mob.'

When it makes no remarks, she goes on. 'I am goddess-queen of the isle, yes; I make the laws. But that makes me no more a tyrant of this land than your captain is a tyrant of his ship.'

A ridiculous notion, and they haven't even reached the inevitable contradictions yet. 'Sole rule is not the issue,' Ib says. 'Cruelty is. The thirst for power is.'

' 'Tis good, then, that I am burdened by neither,' she says, but before Ib can form eyes to roll, she continues. 'If I lie, it is for the same reasons you omit the truth.'

She opens a paw, then raises it. 'Think about it. Nearly every culture in Midworld - every extant one - is suspicious towards outsiders, those who would waste resources or subvert the social order.'

Ib is about to protest that this is not the case here, that everyone has plenty and that she onviously keeps order, but she holds up a finger, shushing it. 'Ah ah ah! Let me finish...'

It does. To its mild surprise, the patronising interruption does not offend it as much as it should.

Apathy. It must have burned through its anger at this place.

She clasps her front paws, resting her muzzle on it. 'If you saw me ask a mother to put me before her newborn, you would decry it as odious, even if practically every captain on the seas makes such requests when they don't just give orders.' She regards him with lidded eyes. 'What is the problem, then? That I am a person, rather than a creed?'

Ib almost says that she has the means to make every Midworlder forget about scarcity, but then, so do the Great Powers, and it's not knocking on their doors to reprimand them.

This dragoness and her servants, they are not a Great Power only because they keep to themselves, Ib realises.

She smiles gently. 'You will forgive me for catching your surface thoughts - some of us call it seeing blindly - but you also have the means to make everyone's life plentiful, and yet do not. Nor do you stop those who wish for death from rushing to their fates.' She spreads her forelegs. 'And yet, no one is rushing after your crew to call you monsters...'

It expected this. 'Neither I nor my crew would demand worship in exchange for aid,' Ib counters. 'Nor would the Great Powers.'

She looks aside, smirking, flames lighting up her nostrils and maw, behind her fangs. Looking back at Ib, she says, 'Let us leave aside the similiarities between what I ask for and what, for example, the philosophy of the Free Fleet demands. You don't need idols or preachers or scriptures to have a religion. Let us speak of this island, instead.'

She becomes a cloud of smoke, drifting closer to Ib and shrinking as she does so, until she matches its stature. 'Hear me: all my people have here, they made themselves.'

Seeing its blank countenance, she begins slowly spinning around him as she speaks. 'You know very well the potential everyone has. You needn't be a mage to shape existence, even as it shapes you.'

Ib clears its throat, a habit it has picked up from Mharra. 'Are you saying your isle is fertile because they think it is? They clearly believe the bounty comes from you.'

'I am not so weak as to bend to their beliefs,' she says softly. 'They believe there is plenty, gifted by me, aye, and when their thoughts clash against my will, and rebound, they become reality.'

Ib grunts. 'If that is so, why the deception? The cult? Narcissism?'

She giggles again. 'You would like to think so, hmm? The first of them began praying to me after I repelled the first great invasion of the Ashen Isle. Directing them towards the endeavours whose results you have seen is a way to channel their energies, and you know what mankind can get up to when restless.'

She shakes what passes for her head. 'I will not deny that I appreciate it - but, in the end, the rituals' purpose is to bind them together, give them something to share so they might share strength as well. The exiles you have heard of are banished lest they tear asunder the fabric of society, not out of malice, even if it might appear as such to you.'

Of course she would say that. 'And what of those who remain, yet distupt the workings of your realm after years or decades?'

She lowers her head, such as it is, and her mirth is gone when she responds. 'They are dealt with in accordance to their crime. I believe you are familiar with the concept.'

Ib grumbles noncommitally. 'In the end, you remain as hidebound as you are proud. You do not even give your people power or knowledge, choosing to leave them chasing their tails. And, no matter how well-intentioned they seem to you, your lies are still lies.'

She makes an exasperated gesture with a smoky limb. 'Let us cut to the meat of the matter, Ib: all you've listed are merely secondary annoyances. The comings and goings of a land you're visiting only briefly. What truly irks you is my nature, as opposed to yours as our manners are.'

Not a lie. She is not the Idea of Devotion, but she is as intertwined with it as Ib's corpus.

Ib turns away from her. 'It is not natural for people to slaughter their loved ones at the word of a leader, without even an explanation.'

'And you, who would slaughter your crew if it meant all of creation would become freer, safer? Is that natural?'

'...It is necessary.'

She runs a hand over its clenched fist, and it allows her to open it, which she does while smiling up at her. 'I understand. Between what you are and the nature of your body within this world, how could you do aught but distrust those like me? Worry not,' she whispers, leaning closer, 'I forgive you.'

Ridiculous. 'I need your forgiveness like I need a hole in my head,' it snaps lightly, tearing its hand free of her grasp.

'Nevertheless, it is given.'

Hmph. Crossing its arms, Ib says, 'My like or dislike of you does not matter. You might be a spectator, or not. The show will take place.'

Much the same could be said of creation's situation, but Ib is not going to elaborate, not with her.

The dragoness hums, mildly disapproving. 'Stubborn, stubborn. That you could talk about necessity and rebuke me in the same breath was amusing, so I will bear no grudge.' Her form sways as she makes her way to Ib, placing a hand on its chest. 'Are you scared of devotion to a higher being, my dear rival? Is that it? You never railed against you captain when you were bereft of memories, but then, you were never truly lesser than him, were you?'

She bumps its hip with hers as she moves away, then stops, looking at it over her shoulder. 'Let us be frank with each other: you get on my nerves nearly as much as I get on yours, if not more so. Something must be done.'

'And what do you suggest?' Ib mutters, unfolding its arms.

The dragoness' smile returns, more mischievous than before. 'Some of my faithful sometimes find themselves called here, to partake in a communion with their Mistress.'

That does not sound at all imbalanced - and why does Ib have this feeling families participate sometimes?

...Not that it is its business. None of this place's traditions are. 'No, thank you.'

'Are you sure?' she asks, and the next instant, her form has become that of a woman, ash-grey of flesh, with the parts that would be hidden by clothes, were she human, being as dark as her scales. She makes to take a step closer, but Ib holds up a hand, turning its head and shutting off its sight at the same time.

'You are very generous,' it says tersely, 'but I do not even know if I have such urges, honestly.'

She plants her hands on her hips. 'You did not avert your gaze when I was unclothed yet scaled. What is the difference?'

'There are several differences,' Ib says tightly, choosing not to mention them. 'And no need to bare yourself, in any case.' Just because it dislikes her doesn't mean she doesn't deserve dignity.

'Tch...' she tosses her long raven hair. 'You could at least call me Ashe, after my isle. You keep thinking of me as "she" and it is getting tiring.'

'Very well,' it agrees. 'Now, if you do not mind, I would take my leave...' The sound of claws scraping together fills the cavernous room.

'Hmm?' "Ashe" smiles, gradually returning to her initial form. "Let us be honest, if we don't tear each other to shreds, you'll start pouting as soon as I heckle you.'

'Any advantage this shape could give you is meaningless in the face of your power,' Ib points out.

'It does not give you the disadvantage of being something you choose not to look at,' Ashe teases.

'What about clothes?'

'What about them?'

Of course she'd say that...not that Ib is one to complain.

* * *

Aina is hiding her smile behind one hand as she watches Ryzhan's most powerful crewmate take its place at the centre of a molten stone stage. She hopes the Idea of Freedom will return to this island; it would be a shame if it doesn't.

Now, the show's about to begin. She wonders if each actor will begin by introducing themselves...