[centre][b][i][u]VILLAIN[/b][/i][/u][/centre]
---

She idly tilts her head from side to side as he wakes, fixing him with her best royal expressionless stare. She continued staring all through his unpleasant little spiel, which she listened to intently but would later claim she paid no attention to if he ever asked. Nope. Didn't hear a word. Dweeb. As soon as she heard, 'I'll be your assistant,' she turned around and walked back to her tent, giving him the 'you're not really important but come hither' finger wiggle mom loved so much. The one where you waggle your fingers without turning around all condescending-like. 

Gripping both flaps of her tent, she threw them open with a great big dramatic gesture, then rushed inside before gravity shut them on her and she ended up looking dumb(er). Him, though. He could open them himself. Her tent was small and sparsely decorated, with a cot in the back. She felt a shiver of revulsion just looking at it. The dungeon was going to full of these. There wouldn't even be room to stand. It would just be cots. And blood. Forever. A chest, closed, sits at the foot of the cot, and a tall, pointy-tipped wardrobe on wheels rests in the center, acting as both clothing repository and tent triangulator. A blanket laid in the dirt-- the cursed one? She had a chair, one chair, and a small desk with a golden gem-studded goblet on it. 

Catherine pulls the chair out and takes a seat. There was a reason she only had one chair, and that was because mom's instructions forbade her from having the peasants uproot the entire castle and carry it to the dungeon, but she was going to pretend it was so she could sit and her guests would have to stand all inferior-like. She came alone, after all, with only a gaggle of comically incompetent demons to do the manual labor: carrying her stuff and carrying her. They were promptly dismissed afterwards and she just wasn't desperate enough to try demon-summoning a second time. Besides! She had a new mook now, and he surely would move her stuff for her. For sure. She mentally marks him as Lackey #1, then thinks better of it. Lackey #3. The first two spots would stay empty. Give him something to work for.

She was comfortable now, and, assuming he followed, spoke up. "I'm working on this--" she plucks the goblet from its resting-place-- "Right now. It's supposed to change whatever's put inside it into blood." She pauses, then adds, "And give whomever drinks it nightmare diarrhea. That part of the spell works. We'll probably need it for a puzzle or something later and I'm just thinking ahead."

The goblet makes a coughing noise, and she baps it with the back of her hand. "Need some mood lighting. Candles are in the chest. They're the unlabeled ones. The labeled ones aren't candles." The chest had an assortment of vials, pouches, beakers, and candles in it, almost all of them labeled with ominous things like 'MURDERWAX.' 'EYES OF SAD FROG.' 'TEARS.' In a mini-shelf in the chest are a handful of unlabeled, empty beakers and the candles she mentioned.

"Mood lighting! Chop chop. Face the sun. One arm up, other arm down and out. Quarter turn every minute or so. Oh, and I need you to crouch." Her commands flowed forth quickly, naturally, almost as if from someone very used to telling people what to do with very little consideration for how inconvenient that might be. The last bit was more for her tent's sake than for the spell's sake. "Oh, and can you sing? It'd help if you could sing."