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My captor slides me into her palm, a single thread of saliva acting as the last leash tying me to the prison of her carnivore teeth; it snaps as she holds me out at arm's length. Exposed to the elements once more, I blanket myself in tails to hide my unclad form from her scanning gaze.

"So... we're good, right?" I ask, at length. "You're convinced I didn't come to kill you?"

My words elicit an uncharacteristic snort from her; I can tell she's stifling an even more pointed laughter behind it but she values her composure. "I'm not convinced you could kill me," she says. "You do a good job of keeping alive, but gods, do you get hurt a lot when you fight."

"Oh, thanks..." I grumble. The worst part is she's right. The main reason I generally wouldn't hurt a fly is because the last time I tried to, I fell out of a window, but that's a story for another day, and one she doesn't need to know about. "Anyway, back to my original reason for being here," I say, trying to get this moving, "I need to get to the capital, and I understand you have a ship."

"You understand right," she affirms. "Why exactly do you need to get to the capital?"

"Well, specifically it's Suraokh that needs it, but he won't say more than that yet," I explain.

"Fair enough. I won't push for more if you don't know."

"I appreciate it. Now, about letting me get down and changing me back..."

"You don't want me to do that," the jackal states plainly.

"...Yeah. I kinda do," I state just as plainly.

"You're in no position to get dressed when you're that... sticky."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours," she insists. "You startled me."

I shrug; there's no point trying to argue with her. "Let me guess, back in I go?"

"Perceptive," she remarks, popping me into her mouth moments later.

I feel cheated, somehow, but really I should have expected this. I get accustomed to the red carpet again, all too easily, at least until it forces me against her palate, using the pressure to slide me back. Realizing what she's trying to do, I immediately resist, forcing against it and trying for the front of the mouth.

"What's the idea?" I demand. Before I can place a hand on the rim of the ivory gate, it closes up and I reflexively draw my hand back to avoid it being taken off. A casual rock of the tongue rolls me to the side, placing me on my back atop jagged molars, the upper set of which bears down on me lightly, but still so much more than I could be bothered to appreciate. "You said you wouldn't swallow me!"

"I shaid not yet," she smugly corrects, her speech impaired by the fragile body between her teeth. "That wazh then, thish izh now." The sudden tilt of her head flings me face down onto her tongue again, my feet unable to find purchase on anything, flailing above the sucking flesh, flexing below me in what I assume is a test gulp, to get the radial pressure just right, so that I can just barely not stand it, just like it was last time. I dig my claws in against the dexterous muscle sliding me back, or at least I try to. The thing is so hardy she could probably eat broken glass if the mood struck her. Not that it would; broken glass doesn't kick or scream.

Unable to do anything else the rest of my body begins to slip, I hold desperately onto wherever I can find a semblance of a handhold, screaming obscenity all the way until her throat closes up, engulfing me in pink quicksand. Just as I predicted, it's the perfect amount of too tight; my ribs audibly shift in my chest and I can't breathe, but it's not enough to knock me out. I'm at her mercy and she demands my full attention to that fact. Eventually the suffocating clutch releases in some sadistic parody of grace, releasing me with a quiet splash into a dangerous place, rattled by her full-body shudder at the introduction of live prey.

Fun fact about Xeeok biology; we have enzymes capable of breaking down all sorts of metals with ease. In most others, it takes the stomach a long while to reduce its contents to mush and move it further on, but it takes us a good couple of hours, if even that. If she decides to keep me in here for long there won't be a trace of me left. Before my worrying can really go anywhere, I'm taken by an entirely different sort of panic as I feel a cold liquid drench my back. As it mixes with the fluid beneath me, I'm greeted by a rising mass of fizz, thankfully odorless, and then all of a sudden it dies off. Tarkossha extract, neutralizes the acid and inhibits the enzymes all at once. When I realize this, I'm relieved, sure, but I know it means she plans to keep me down for a while.

When I go to position myself more comfortably, muscle compresses suddenly about me as she clamps down from all sides, letting up briefly only to do it again, causing me to drop into the lowest point of her stomach.

"So what about your friend?" she asks.

"He'll show up," I shout up. "He does that." It doesn't do me any good to keep expressing my displeasure with this, so I won't waste my energy. Once I get the feeling she's done bending and shifting around, presumably picking things up, some of which I hope are my clothes, I get cozy, at least as much as I can, reclining against the natural slope and resting my hands behind my head, which only just barely sticks out above the surface of the humid bath.

It's a longer trip than I'd have liked, all the while the ambient ensemble of her heart, lungs, and guts seek to lull me to sleep with their constant sounds. Of course, I'm having none of it. I don't believe I've ever trusted anyone enough to even consider that, least of all her. Eventually, to break the monotony, I speak up.

"You have a name, right?"

"I sure do," she says back. And that's all.

I'm growing uncomfortable with the relative silence. "So... what is it?"

"It's what I'm called."

"No I mean w--"

She begins to laugh, and my environment shakes around me, requiring that I stand unless I want to get taken under the surface, which, guess what? I don't. "I know what you meant," she says, quelling her amusement down to a mild giggle. "Call me Yhana."

"Under the assumption that's actually your name, I shall."

"It's not Ssemba, if that's what threw you off. My parents both had Jesh as a first language."

My face flushes a bit as I realize I had been insensitive; I'm glad she can't see it. Though of conversational proficiency in both major Akhurai dialects, I hadn't considered her origins. I wonder why anyone would leave the Republic of Jeshar in favor of a place like this. The moment of guilt passes quickly as I recall that this person swallowed me whole not once, but twice, and both times too gratuitously for my liking.

We travel without speaking for a bit longer as she moves through what I assume is a rather bustling part of town, considering the abundance of voices engaged in their own little exchanges. I imagine Yhana would look right crazy if she tried to talk to me here. But I think she's crazy anyway. After quite some time, more people regard her as she passes by. Her gait slows, and I begin counting seconds instinctively.

I can just barely hear the sound a door closing, and then the sound of a very quiet gag; I don't know how she does it so seamlessly, but I'm not given time to ponder that before all the air is crushed from my lungs and I'm dragged back up her esophagus. The transition from an overbearing warmth to a sudden chill, courtesy of porcelain, shocks me out of my lethargic state. I would have preferred not to have been released into a sink, but at least it's clean. Opening my mouth to ask where we are, I'm interrupted by a downpour of water from the spigot.

Allow me to clarify this; I may have an incredible tolerance for the cold, but cold and wet is a combination I've never been fond of. That said, the shocked scowl adorning my face might not be appreciated but I can't help that it's there, nor do I care to. I shake myself off and clamber onto the edge of the sink, folding my arms on the ledge and resting my head for a moment, until Yhana picks me up again.

"Okay, I'm going to change you back now," she says, finally. "Is that alright?"

"Please do," I consent. However, what I didn't expect was for her to toss me into the air. Which she does. She's calm and collected, I'm freaking out, you get the picture; it's like every singly interaction the two of us have had thus far.

She conjures a small reddish-black globe in her hand; the matter she shed from me when she shrank me, compacted into a single dense object. My eyes widen as she pitches it directly at me, but upon impact, rather than feeling my ribcage shatter into tiny pieces from sheer force, all my senses are nullified for a moment. As they return, I find myself on the floor, staring at what is yet to become my left hand as carbon and nitrous compounds come together, interfering radiance flowing off of the atoms and allowing them to bond together again. I shake myself off and work on standing up as soon as my literal jelly-legs decide to become solid again. I could have jumped for joy if that was something I'd do. I opt for a stretch instead, as I familiarize myself with having a standard amount of mass, but stop when I remember once again, that I am naked. I turn away quickly, hugging a tail against my chest and trying to ignore the raucous laughter of the woman behind me.

She carries on for longer than I'd like, so I eventually turn around with a look that carries as little amusement as I can muster. "Are you done?"

"Yeah, yeah..." she pants, bracing herself on the wall. "I... yeah. Sorry, you just get so flustered. It's not like this is the first time I'm seeing you like this."

"True, but you're seeing me in so much more detail now," I respond.

"Oh, but think about this," she says. "There's not a part of you that remains that my tongue hasn't touched."

"I don't want to think about that."

"I don't either. I just filter it out any time that I eat people."

"Well... good for you. Do it a lot?"

"Almost daily," she confesses shamelessly. "This line of work results in a lot of opportunities."

"I take it that line of work is more than taking passengers?"

"We're privateers, actually. Only thing better than being a pirate is being a pirate with permission from the powers that be. Anyway..." she taps me on the shoulder, causing me to shiver as she passes by. "I'll get out of your hair for a bit. Help yourself to a shower, but don't use the one on the far left, it doesn't work after our surgeon did... something with it. I won't stop you from looking, but you'll be happier if you don't."

"Right. Thanks, I guess..."

She looks back with a smile, and then she's out the door, and I allow myself to sigh and loosen up. A shower would do me some good. I scan the room briefly, two sinks, two toilet stalls, and four shower stalls. My clothes hang over a rail on the wall, and my macana is propped neatly next to them. Upon investigating them myself I find that everything is there. At least she kept things tidy. With a passive shrug, I turn on my heel and hurry to one of the stalls. I hope the water is alright. The handle creaks a bit as I turn it, leading the way for a rattling rising pitch as water runs up the pipes. I'm prepared for it to be cold as ice, but the elation I feel as it warms up quickly relieves the tension. Drawing the curtain closed behind myself, I step in.

I haven't really looked at my body this closely in a while, despite my state of undress for the past couple of hours, it was too dark to really do so then. The black markings in my fur have become very ornate, but the large, thick-bordered circle on my chest is disturbingly reminiscent of the outer ring of a target. I'll spare you further details, there's not much to be said for washing oneself that I care to say. After several minutes, I cast the curtain open with the intention of drying myself, to find towels absent from the room. No matter, I have a technique for this that my particular attunements allow. I inhale deeply, extending my hands out to either side of me, generating a powerful current of rift feedback in my left hand. And just then, the door opens.

"The hell are you?" the tall feline man demands, skipping "who", "what" and possibly omitting "doing".

I drop my stance, admittedly intimidated by the size of this one, as well as his potential physical strength; whatever isn't hidden by a towel is visibly very defined. "...Complain to Yhana if you must," I say quickly. I'm not one to deflect blame, but I'm doing it now.

"Oh... of course it's her again," he scoffs a little, moving past me for the stall next to the one I just left. "Well, enjoy your stay, I guess. Just keep out the captain's way."

The curtain draws behind him with a simply gesture of his bushy tail; I assume from his ability to directly affect physical matter that he's a Vivicaligrapher. Rare that they're so physically enabled; most that I've met simply nod their head at whatever they want to move, and off it goes, with the exception of objects bearing a protective rune, or anything encompassed by an aura.

With the dark feline no longer paying me any mind, I resume my stance, sweeping the current over me. A sensation like static electricity building up washes over me in a wave for a moment, and as it passes, so does any residual moisture in my fur. It's a process I wish I'd figured out sooner; the resulting poofiness is a small price to pay for the time it saves. Patting myself down, I get dressed again. I reach for my macana on the way out, but stop myself. What would the crew think if they were to see someone they didn't know skulking about the ship brandishing a weapon? It calls to mind another technique I wish I had learned sooner, or at all, for that matter; the procedure of accessing a sort of pocket space in which to store spare objects. I once had a friend who used his almost exclusively for food. Needless to say, everyone loved him. Then he and his family left the planet. I wonder where he is now?

Spending one or two moments too many remembering the past, I shrug a little and grab the macana. Leaving it here will raise just as many questions. I'm surprised the cat had nothing to say about it, but if his mind was set on getting a shower, that's fine by me. Tentatively, I open the door and take a look both ways down the corridor. It's surprisingly nice, but then again, this is the Dominion. Everything is nice here. The floor is laminated wood, which hints at living quarters; it wouldn't be a very good choice for anything related to engineering or combat. I feel as though I'm in violation of something as my claws click against the wood with each step, so I feel an odd sensation of relief as I find textured metal stairs leading up out of the hall. I exit the hatch, which is guarded by a standing, roofed shield of metal to protect the nice things below from debris that the wind might tend to carry. It's a bit of an odd design, requiring me to take a precarious step up to get onto the deck and strafe out.

Disaster strikes as I clear the shield, as if one disaster wasn't enough. I bump into someone large who rounds the corner at the same time I exit, knocking me prone. I have only a moment to process that this figure, dressed like a priest and wearing a leather mask reminiscent of pack-hunting lizards native to Radiance, is nearly twice as tall as I am, before they descend on me, crouched over me with the rounded snout of their mask almost brushing with my nose.

"Leonov, off."

They respond to the new voice immediately, returning to a standing posture in a motion I can only describe as boneless. Their absurdly long arms dangle anxiously at their sides, fingers playing at the hem of their slacks, but other than that they are still. With this one effectively neutralized, I tilt my head up to look at whoever spoke. "Sorry about him," she says. "He gets a little excited around new people."

She is human, a rare sight in Dominion military, and Faigani by the looks of her; dark-skinned with silky ashen gray hair, and a bronze filigree braided into it, no doubt crafted with her own two hands, one of which wanders out to me to help me to my feet.

"Thanks," I say, trying to hold my weapon in as unthreatening of a position as I can.

"You don't seem like a mercenary," she observes, though she doesn't seem like one either, a charcoal suit mimicking her companion's own. "What should I call you?"

"Merion," I reply.

"Jori," she reciprocates. "What brings you here?"

"I and one other are looking to travel east," I explain. "One of your crewmates obliged us."

"Ah, Yhana? I saw her around not a moment ago." She leans a little bit closer in, her voice hushing. "My condolences."

I chuckle a bit nervously at that. "Does it get worse?"

"It... it can. On the plus side, we don't charge; what servants of the Empire would we be if we did, but anyway the trip doesn't cost you anyth--Well, it doesn't cost you money."

"Lovely... what does she take instead? Blood?"

"Oh, sometimes. Excellent conductor of radiance and all that, but if I were to assume by your form alone, you've got more radiance than you know what to do with. She'll probably just collect your energy the more... conventional way, if you can call it that," she suggests. A clear reference to the Xeeok ability to steal radiance by ingesting another by any means. Yhana has already demonstrated a preference for the alive-and-whole approach, but blood drinking would be just as viable.

I keep forgetting how my appearance will be construed. Reaper or not, I look just like something a god decided to spruce up and sic on their enemies. "I'm glad your reaction to me wasn't as rash as hers."

She chuckles a bit at that. "She's a bit paranoid about being harvested, honestly. But really, most Reapers get one errand, see it through, and are never called upon again. Who did you have to kill?"

"Oh, uh... nobody yet."

Another chuckle. "Who knows? Maybe it's her after all."

Unsure how to respond to that, I try to find words but manage little more than a weak cough.

She emits a hearty laugh this time, clapping me on the shoulder. "I jest, I jest. Your business is your own. Anyway, if she gives you any trouble, let me know; I'll have Leonov throw her up the stairs again."

"I... appreciate that," I emanate. "Did you make him?"

"I wish," she confesses. "He's a Caliphate reject; I found him in the shallows and did some work on him. Almost entirely muscle, supported by fluid sacs."

I turn to glance at the towering, maned synthetic priest; he's surprisingly docile and the expression on his mask is almost cute, the zigzag mouth worked into it fixed permanently into a placid smile, though I can't help but worry his dark lenses hide something else.

"He's certainly something," I say. "Why'd they get rid of him?"

"Something wrong in his neuromass. I suspect it's a busted amygdala module. Keeps him about as dangerous as a small puppy unless I'm in harm's way though."

As much as I would have liked to continue the discussion, I catch Yhana out of the corner of my eye, but she noticed me first it seems, already striding towards me. "Here she comes," I say.

Jori gives me another pat on the shoulder. "Take it easy," she says. A click of her fingers, and Leonov follows her off. So far, I like her the most. Necrotech-savvy, just like my father. They would have had plenty to talk about.

"In fairness, I suppose I did neglect to tell you where I'd be," Yhana says. She gestures at the open hatch before moving for it. "Let me show you to the room."

"Right. How's it set up?" I ask, following.

"I'll work that out in a bit, I haven't cleaned up in a bit."

"Wait... it's your room?"

"Yeah, there isn't a lot of space to spare on this ship so we have to share. Hope you don't mind."

"Oh, it's fine..." In truth, I worry how vulnerable that leaves me. It will be easier to steal my blood when I'm asleep.

We travel down the corridor again; I don't feel so wrong for doing so this time now that I'm not alone. "I see you've been making friends already," she remarks.

"Yeah, Jori's cool."

"Don't put too much stock into the things she says," Yhana advises. "Captain's got a bit of a thing against humans so she has to blow herself up bigger than she really is to get any sort of respect around here." She takes a right turn where the passage branches off, grazing fingers lovingly over the surface of the fortified door. "Home sweet home," she says, unlocking it and pulling it open. However, as she does so, she reels back with a sharp gasp, raising a hand as if to strike. The gray stuffed kangaroo standing at attention in the doorway, almost as tall as she is, does not react, thankfully, but that leaves it up to me as I leap to grab her wrist, bringing her dangerously sparking arcs out of position.

"Wait, that's Suraokh!" I say.

Yhana falls still and quiet for a good moment, then forces a laugh in an attempt to mellow out. From an observer standpoint, it doesn't seem to work.

"In fairness, I told you he'd show up," I remind her.

"She tried to hit me," the doll observes.

"It was a reflex, I promise," she responds.

"I will believe you here," Suraokh concedes. "Do not try it again. I will respond in kind."

"You've got a very... measured way of speaking," she remarks, somewhat impertinently but I imagine it's an effort to break the ice.

"All thoughts come in five. Unless they come in less."

"You should visit our surgeon; I'm sure he has more up-to-date lexicon modules on hand."

"I just may; thank you. But that can wait yet." She gives him a nod before quickly turning to me. "Where's he staying?"

"How should I know?" I ask, my shrug repelling her hands from my shoulders. "I don't know how this place works."

"I guess he could stay in the closet..."

"I will be just fine," Suraokh assures us. "I do not sleep, actually. I can stand guard instead."

"There you go, extra protection for your already very-protected door," I say. "All you need to do is remember he's on the other side."

"Alright... but don't blame me if Nym flips out when he sees you," she says, pointing dangerously close in Suraokh's face. If I'm being honest, I half-expected his lips to unsew and he would bite her finger for invading his personal space. The other half was fear. I never want to see his mouth open again. Next, she turns to me. "Well, go ahead and get settled in. There's a hammock rolled up on the ceiling, just untie it and it should come down for you. I need to check up on some things and I'm ...90 percent certain you won't get into trouble."

"Thanks," I say, trying not to look for any sort of backhandedness in her statement. "I'll do my best not to."

Of course, the way my day is going, I wouldn't be surprised if trouble finds me just to spite me