"Absolutely."

(The one throne pieces are all the same; the five throne piece has 'Vigilance' on it instead of 'Prosperity'.)

Marilla quietly shuffles round so that she can see whatever Lenora's going to pull out as well.

Here's a big tablet screen, showing a birds-eye view as something skims at extreme speed low over blasted hills and cratered plains.

"This is what Ava Schimmhoff, ranked Ace but not part of the two hundred - our most elite - saw during one of her combat runs."

"Coming up on the convoy. No alertness, they haven't seen you."

"Roger. Plan unchanged?"

"Yes. A-whacks saw an interceptor flight in G12 but they're going for the fuel tankers."

"Shit, need that fuel. Mama's thirsty."

"Don't worry, blue's got them."

"Cut the chatter. Ten seconds. One pass, assess, possible second pass."

There's a series of clicks.

Then, with a "go go go!" and a rushing sound, the perspective leaps high into the air. Glowing bright streaks and trails of smoke leap forth from the point of view and the sides, impacting a line of grey and brown wheeled vehicles trundling along a road. Most of the vehicles explode immediately- A few figures surrounding them scatter, clearly inhuman- One shoots back, but they're gone before it can do anything.

They circle around and count the burning wrecks, then are ordered to head back to friendly lines immediately, complimented for a "clean attack run".

Marilla can't keep in a surprised squeak when things start exploding. Her eyes are very wide.

The egregore... blinks a few times. "That is incredibly confusing, but certainly I am impressed," he replies.

"It's a whole different way of fighting. Armor changes things. The, uh, bow? Changes things. We have about ten or more further shifts. It's almost absurd really. The only thing is, I only arrived here through an accident, so I don't know if I'll be found."

"That makes it very important to keep you well maintained, then," replies the egregore. "I don't think the Druj are going to touch the sides, but you might want to get an anointing before you go in - or a Banner of the Bold or something if you don't like the idea of any of our auras. That will shore up your spiritual defences, which is the thing you might not have."

"Important question though, does the banner do anything weird?"

"No, it's extremely straightforward, it just allows you to focus on it and dispel one instance of a spiritual effect trying to affect you. It refreshes when you sleep, or theoretically also if you rest in specific enchanted areas, or have some other items used on you, but I'm not convinced you'll have access to that.

It is not as good as an anointing because the second effect can still get to you, but it should at least cover you against the miasma; once you've dismissed that once, it shouldn't affect you for the rest of the day."

"If I ever get home they're gonna be like 'so how much research did you do on this 'magic' stuff exactly, can we make it in a factory'. Ha. How much does such a banner run?" 

"Because they decay, they're normally made on commission, but in a big city like Siroc you'll likely find a few - probably for a crown or two, but it depends a lot on supply and demand, and how long they have left to run, and if the banner design itself is pleasantly generic or specific and embarrassing, and so on."

"I'll have to swing by before I head off. No playing with fire."

She checks the fabber with a semi-conscious glance.

"Seven minutes left for your order."

"No? Fire will be most disappointed."

"-Is fire another element or something, like winter. I mean, that's a turn of phrase that just means 'don't poke the weird stuff it can probably hurt you'."

"I mean, Fire would probably be disappointed about that, too, but no - there are three traditional forms taken by the Brass Coast egregore, fire, dust and glass, and Fire is naturally the most impetuous."

"That does make sense. Personality can be such a thing. I knew a girl who goes from twitchy and impulsive to ice cold operator when it matters. I shall guess you are... Glass."

"Excellent, you have correctly discerned that I am dressing exactly like a stereotypical Glass host."

"I don't know your stereotypes, choom. Should I go dye my hair blue and talk about the silence of the night?"

"Ooh, is that a new insult word? What does 'choom' mean?

And, only if you want to be mistaken for a merrow, which isn't the most popular lineage in the Coast, although mostly because they don't like it here much.

Sorry, I am basically just playing with you now; you might have better things to do, I'm happy for you to go do them, I will stop anyone meddling with your device if it's in my power."

"I figured we were in the banter phase of conversation yeah. Choom means... Like buddy, or pal, but in an exasperated acquaintance kind of way, you use it when someone's being just a little bit stupid or needs a favor but it's not a huge deal. You also use it in a completely different tone for serious friends, to mean... Reliability. Having your back when it matters."

"Excellent, I am going to thoroughly confuse some people by using it on them."

She giggles. "I think the word originally comes from a kind of fuel that everyone hates a little bit because it reeks, but is good stuff anyway. Might be wrong, though."

"As for making it in a factory, I'm sure the League would be doing it if they could; there's no innate spark to artisanry, though, if you made a study of it I expect you could learn it."

"When I have some downtime, maybe."

She looks up the photo of the map she took earlier and tries to match it to aerial footage and find out where Siroc is, while she waits for the fabber to finish.

Siroc is a sprawling coastal settlement with extensive but somewhat haphazard docks, quite close to where Lenora left the boat-load of rescued slaves.

This is about when the fabber goes DING!

Out of a sliding door comes a torso-sized lump of plastic and glassy material. The spigots are pretty self explanatory. There's one labeled POUR, as well as CLEAN and WASTE. There's also a small touchscreen with battery and system status indicators, and the crank off to the side. 

"Well, there ya go. Bout fifty pounds of weight."

"Delightful." The egregore hefts the item, not effortlessly but like he's reasonably practiced at carrying heavy things. "Anything else I can help you with right now, or shall I run off and bestow this on some unsuspecting..."

Marilla clears her throat meaningfully.

"...or, I suppose, go and talk to the dhomiro about it, given we are in Ezmara's rooms here," he regretfully concedes.