I endure it. Between waves of political drivel, good intelligence hits the deck between waves of political drivel fountaining from Solenne’s mouth.
“…and I tell ya, right, Admiral Catalina, she clocked the flaw in the whole masculine order straight off—brilliant, she is, absolutely bloody brilliant! Came in, right, an’ sorted the ranks herself—none of that poncey committee nonsense—real hands-on leadership, yeah?”
Frankie mutters something about stabbing her own ears, but Solenne’s already leaning forward, eyes gleaming, words spilling faster.
“Proper inspiration, she is. Saw the way them blokes ran things—mess, total mess—and said, ‘Nah, not on my watch, luv.’ Cleared ’em out! Poof! All them old uniforms gone. You should’ve seen it, Lizzy, pure art, like watchin’ the dawn of civilisation—”
Between the praises and hallelujahs to the almighty Catalina, we extract troop placements: a battalion on the high ridge, two more along the coast. I pry loose that Solenne’s a gifted hacker—white hat for MI5 or something darker. The rest is a sermon she’s memorised: sisterhood, purity, the rise of women. But the cadence is too polished, the fire too hollow. She’s reciting the catechism expected of her.
Then—almost by accident—she drops a detail colder than deep water: the men didn’t retreat. They vanished.
“And ’er hair, right? The shine on it—you’d die! Our commander says image is power—an’ she’s not wrong! My stylist—best in the district, swear on me nan—made me look proper deadly. Bit o’ curl, bit o’ gloss—can’t start a revolution lookin’ scruffy, can ya?”
Her grin doesn’t reach her eyes. The words spill out quick, practiced—like she’s said ’em a hundred times for people she doesn’t dare disappoint.
Rhea’s fur ripples a queasy green. Tess tilts her head, brow creasing, and I catch Frankie mouthing something definitely not reverent. Lenora busies herself with her medkit, though the faint curl at her mouth gives her away.
While Solenne preaches the gospel of haircare, I jot notes in my log. NPCs repurposed. Civil services folded into faction control. No independent command units left. Frankie snorts. Tess silences her with a glare sharp enough to slice paper.
Solenne draws a long breath, voice brightening like a lamp on dying power. “…an’ once the heretics are swept clean, you’ll see it—drones everywhere, love! Thousands of ’em, wings all glowin’ blue, droppin’ justice from the heavens—proper sight, that. Beautiful.”
Her smile wobbles. The last word lands soft, almost guilty, like she’s repeating someone else’s line. For the briefest moment, I glimpse the girl behind the mask—frightened, desperate to stay useful.
“Enough,” Frankie growls. “If she says justice again, I’m chuckin’ her overboard.”
Jenny stifles a giggle. Rhea shakes her head. Tess watches silently, eyes narrowing like she’s solving an equation.
But I keep writing. Between borrowed slogans and brittle bravado, Solenne is sketching the whole battlefield—units, drones, patrol routes. She doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.
And somehow… I can’t bring myself to hate her. It’s hard to despise someone clinging to the script that keeps them alive.
All we have to do is survive the sermon. Fortunately, I’ve learned how to shut off the tap when I’m drowning.
I draw a pinch of pale strands from the bundle of blonde hair in my pack, comb them straight with my fingers, and start weaving a bowstring as we walk. The hair is smooth—finer than spider silk, shimmering gold in the morning light. It hums when I twist it—static, or guilt. Probably both. I hum Hit Me With Your Best Shot under my breath, every beat matching a cross-twist.
Twenty steps later, a whisper: “That’s mine,” Solenne murmurs, touching the short fuzz of her new buzz-cut. It suits her—Road Warrior Barbie chic. Sweat beads on her neck, darkening the fresh leather around her collarbones. She smells like warm hide, ozone, and the faint copper of nerves.
…Still, she’s… kind of cute.
With Jenny’s fashion sense and my needlework, the jumpsuit we built looks like it could storm a runway or kill a man for looking too long. Blood-red centipede leather molds to her like it dreamed her shape first. The seams gleam, triple-braided with a saddle stitch of Snapcord—each loop locked with a spark from my fingers. The pattern is hypnotic: twin spirals winding like DNA, the tension humming if you listen close.
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Tiny embroidered flowers curl along the seams—dainty, delicate, explosive. Each petal hides a Snapcord loop waiting for the wrong vibration. No zippers, no ties, no fastenings. One seamless, living, utterly inescapable second skin. Only I can unmake it.
And gods—it’s stunning. When she moves, light pours across her curves in molten ribbons. A cowgirl’s dream—equal parts armor and temptation.
Solenne loves it. She preens when she thinks we aren’t looking, admiring the fit, the colour, the whisper of the leather. But she never touches the stitching; she knows better. She flinches whenever static pops off a seam. She’s stopped joining us for stretching—claims stiff joints, but I recognise the look.
The jumpsuit may hold her like a lover. But it’s a jealous one.
Add the rifle—unloaded, since Frankie keeps both her clip and box of shells—and Solenne cuts an intimidating figure. Until you see her face. Her eyes dart and drop. New worry creases her brow. The smile she wears looks printed on, shiny and hollow. Her bold proclamations that her beloved Catalina will accept her—dressed, leather-bound, and smelling like a man—don’t reach her posture or her stride.
Every so often she glances at us—at Tess’s easy laughter, Rhea’s calm focus, Frankie’s fierce grin—and something flickers behind her eyes. Longing, maybe. The ache of someone who’s realized she’s been performing for the wrong crowd.
The hair is warm and stubborn in my hands. I split the bundle into three thin hanks, roll each strand against my thigh until they bite, then braid them tight and even so the tension will run true. I loop the braid back into itself, lock it with a surgeon’s knot, and seal the splice with a dab of wax that darkens pale gold to amber. When I draw the cord through my fingertips it hums—a static purr, half promise, half warning.
A new string. Strong, elegant… and oddly alive. Like its maker, maybe.
I slide the bow from my back. Calling it a laminated recurve feels wrong—like calling a dragon a lizard. In half-light, it looks carved from memory and intention: layers of seasoned yew and resin ripple beneath a glass-smooth finish, grain and lamination flowing like muscle under skin. The limbs flare into horn-bound talons at the tips, capped with clear crystal that splits sunlight into shards. A faint azure vein traces the laminations, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The riser fits because it was carved for my hand—bone wrapped in leather, every contour familiar. Runes etched along the grip glow faintly, more circuitry than ornament, waiting for thought.
The hair-string thrums with predatory patience.
I rest her across my knees. “She’s not wood,” I murmur. “She’s willpower with limbs.”
Frankie whistles. “Sweet mercy. That’s not a bow— that’s an atrocity. In the best way.”
Jenny’s eyes go wide with awe—and jealousy. “You made that by hand?”
Lenora drags a fingertip along the lamination; the hairs on her arm stand up. “There’s danger in this. Real danger.”
Rhea grins, teeth bright against auburn fur. “Aye. Beauty with teeth. Never thought I’d envy timber.”
When I draw, the string answers with a whisper instead of a twang—low, thrumming, settling under my ribs. Resin, wax, and a faint impossible hint of shampoo ghost across my senses—sunlight, vanity, mirrors—gone as fast as they come.
Tess extends her hands in that soft gesture she uses for blessings. “May I?”
I hand her the bow.
She lifts it like an offering. The runes flare. Her eyes twist—irises folding into a tiny M?bius ribbon—and her voice unfurls into something older as she prays:
“Ealaith Inanna, thir’an vae moriel; thir’dain ven’ael sael’thu.
Vael’ren ath thir’dessaen, kyn thir’sael naer, alven thir’rael dael thir’vaen.
Eir’thun moriel, eir’thun cariel, sen’raen vae oril. So’thiel.”
The bow answers Tess’s prayer with a low, approving hum.
Silence ripples through the group. Even Frankie looks reverent—like he’s just witnessed a legend he’ll be bragging about to imaginary grandkids.
Tess sets the weapon back in my hands.
Gold and silver now vein the runes, edging every curve, capping the tiny teeth that bristle along the outer limbs and carry the trace of Tess’s blessing; when drawn, the bow seems to breathe. I draw it close, running my fingertips down the inner arc. The hair-string purrs—a warm, pleased sound, the kind you feel in your chest more than hear.
I freeze.
My friends snicker.
I growl.
My Corset of Compelled Charisma has decided the new family member deserves a hug. My upper half, meanwhile, has apparently declared independence.
And as I fumble with the rebellious top, the bowstring—chuckles.
Then golden script floods my vision like end credits after a blockbuster—only this one stars me, my wardrobe malfunction, and a thousand smug extras.
#
[System Notification]
Item Acquired: Eidhrin Song
Type: Adaptive Recurve Bow — Handcrafted Epic (Blessed) (Unique)
Origin: Forged by Lizzy Loren from reclaimed bone, aged yew, and the hair of a foe; sanctified by Tess the Prophetess in the name of Inanna.
Description:
A weapon born of defiance and devotion. Eidhrin Song harmonizes living materials with forgotten nanotech—its layered limbs flex like muscle, and the golden hair-string hums with the pulse of its maker. It adjusts its draw to intention: merciful for food, merciless for foes.
#
Stats & Properties:
- +15 Archery Proficiency (scales with emotional focus)
- +8 Luck while protecting allies
- +10 Charisma when displayed or admired
- Adaptive Resonance: syncs to wielder’s pulse for steadier aim
- Living String: self-repairs minor frays; occasionally giggles when touched
- Sanctified Craft: reacts favorably to blessings, music, and compliments
- Growth Item: progresses in equal measure with the crafter’s Inanna Star ranking
- Expansion Item: each arm contains four slots for enchanted gems, runes, or charms
- Bound to Creator — cannot be wielded by another unless freely gifted
?
System Notice: Bond Established — Eidhrin Song recognizes Creator as Primary Wielder.
Attunement: 47%.
Commentary: Inanna smiles upon craftsmanship, confidence… and curves.