Phaedra stands, fearful but strong, before a wall of red and purple seaghosts, all bearing the same sorts of black markings the Fata Morgana wear. Men, women, children, animals both extinct and extant, some skeletal, some whole - all smiling the same cunning smile and speaking with the same timing. She is a golden speck before a scarlet horde, but she holds her sword at the ready - whatever good it will do her.

Cheth: Me.

Cheth: One mind with countless faces... and yours will be a fine addition!

Phaedra: Only if I allow it. You don't take us unless we yield, yes?

Cheth: Ah - will you be challenging me on this beautiful summer evening?

Cheth: Or will you be going quietly?

Phaedra: I'm not really one to "go quietly," sir...

Cheth: Oh, I think I'm going to like you very much, miss Philemon.