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Danacha had been right.
Biviri had been right.
There was a better island. Uninhabited except for a smuggler's nest, long abandoned. Its owners probably consumed by the Ocean alba ago. Legally Flagmark's, now to become Flagmark's in color as well as ink.
An island Sasfsets had spent six cycles docked at, now, being the Executive On Site.
"You should love that," Biviri had sent to her, over the rainbow, as she passed this sentence down on her poor kitra. "People will be looking at you as something other than a drunk Oceanborne floozy. Imagine the change of pace for you this is."
Which, you know, was awfully rude. Not at all necessary a thing to say. Like Biviri knew how other people looked at Sasfsets. Biviri only knew how she looked at Sasfsets. Which was apparently as a drunk, Oceanborne floozy. Well! Well it wasn't like Sasfsets didn't have her own ideas about Biviri! Ideas she had included in a very long, very drunk (so as to not disappoint Biviri's expectations) message that was poorly spellchecked and which Danacha had strongly encouraged her to delete once Sasfsets had read out, as best as she had been able to, the contents.
She was in a suit now. A proper DPREI suit, with the shoulderpads and everything. She was sober, painfully sober, aggressively painfully uncomfortably sober and wearing an actual business suit with Flagmark pink aurora burning above her head to match the warning lights on her slaves' collars.
Laborers freshly arrived from some local labor contracting firm. A dozen and a half fetradden men, middle-aged and weary and not a single fuckable specimen among them, clomping up onto her boat every grainfall to ask what they were supposed to be doing next. A question only Sasfsets was allowed to answer, able to answer, in her fancy, stiff-shouldered business suit.
Abatl had exploratory work to get done. Rocks to dig, to confirm or deny her bizarre landsensing power's accuracy. Spaces to measure out. Spaces Sasfsets had to examine, and do maths on, and recall a lifetime-ago of training of architectural and engineering facts because she was the one who had to be wearing the suit, and be sober, and be telling everyone what to do, because it was what she had been told to do.
Look on the bright side, she reassured herself.
At least Abatl was still stuck here with you.
Plenty of chances to find some way to keep her.
Although her pet princess was getting antsy.
She'd need to get drunk soon, and send Biviri another long, angry message, that she could regret later, yes. No other thing for it.
Danacha had been right.
Biviri had been right.
There was a better island. Uninhabited except for a smuggler's nest, long abandoned. Its owners probably consumed by the Ocean alba ago. Legally Flagmark's, now to become Flagmark's in color as well as ink.
An island Sasfsets had spent six cycles docked at, now, being the Executive On Site.
"You should love that," Biviri had sent to her, over the rainbow, as she passed this sentence down on her poor kitra. "People will be looking at you as something other than a drunk Oceanborne floozy. Imagine the change of pace for you this is."
Which, you know, was awfully rude. Not at all necessary a thing to say. Like Biviri knew how other people looked at Sasfsets. Biviri only knew how she looked at Sasfsets. Which was apparently as a drunk, Oceanborne floozy. Well! Well it wasn't like Sasfsets didn't have her own ideas about Biviri! Ideas she had included in a very long, very drunk (so as to not disappoint Biviri's expectations) message that was poorly spellchecked and which Danacha had strongly encouraged her to delete once Sasfsets had read out, as best as she had been able to, the contents.
She was in a suit now. A proper DPREI suit, with the shoulderpads and everything. She was sober, painfully sober, aggressively painfully uncomfortably sober and wearing an actual business suit with Flagmark pink aurora burning above her head to match the warning lights on her slaves' collars.
Laborers freshly arrived from some local labor contracting firm. A dozen and a half fetradden men, middle-aged and weary and not a single fuckable specimen among them, clomping up onto her boat every grainfall to ask what they were supposed to be doing next. A question only Sasfsets was allowed to answer, able to answer, in her fancy, stiff-shouldered business suit.
Abatl had exploratory work to get done. Rocks to dig, to confirm or deny her bizarre landsensing power's accuracy. Spaces to measure out. Spaces Sasfsets had to examine, and do maths on, and recall a lifetime-ago of training of architectural and engineering facts because she was the one who had to be wearing the suit, and be sober, and be telling everyone what to do, because it was what she had been told to do.
Look on the bright side, she reassured herself.
At least Abatl was still stuck here with you.
Plenty of chances to find some way to keep her.
Although her pet princess was getting antsy.
She'd need to get drunk soon, and send Biviri another long, angry message, that she could regret later, yes. No other thing for it.
Category All / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 1057 x 816px
File Size 299.6 kB
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