oomf atrocious

"You've got wings on your feet, lately."

"Paws?" Nia corrects him without looking up. She can pad about with the best of them, or just the rest of them, and stomp, too.

Minoth ignores the suggestion. "Far be it from me to criticize your enthusiasm, but..."

"You're worried about me." It comes out terminally Gormotti, the whirr in the word matching the crackle in the air.

Keves is close.

If they do all explode in a metaclysmic blaze, does it really matter? No one'll be around to say I told you so, you can't just let tortured souls who hadn't half a wit before the Tree fell take throne and make us call them Queen when another world is watching, watching, watching, and we all look like fools.

They won't have asses to smack. Even she, Nia, queen and citizen of the world, won't know. She'll be gone, she assumes. So will Melia, but Melia's been royalty all her life, and she's perfect.

Nia's a cobble-together in a four-part cobble-together with a cobble-together as her personal advisor. They might have some of the same on the other side, but it ain't Dance Apples steppin' to.

"I'm terrified."

Nia waves an absent hand. "Yeah, well, you're allowed. Old man, 'n' all."

"Nia." Creased hands grip her shoulders. "I've got nothing to be afraid of. What's driving you, right now?"

She rolls the N: "Not fear."

"You're sure?"

Crummy doubter. "I can do this. I'm still Nia, but...I can do this."

"Prove me wrong, how about that?"

Finally, Nia straightens, turns.

"Look, old man. Blowin' in with Melia's not hardly how I want to lose you. So I'm gonna do this."

"Oh-oh. I'm toast."

"Worse than that." Paws, wings, fangs. "You're history."