"Oh! Oh yes! Yes of course! It would be my great honor!"

The first step of the hymn is with enthusiasm! Stomp! The second step of the hymn is with devotion! Watch her hips rock rhythmically, like the coming and going of the waves! The third step of the hymn is... does anybody else hear those chains?

There is a great chorus of rattling and clinking beneath Étoile's feet, and the floor bubbles and warps just around the edges of her suddenly panicked footsteps. The Third Hymn of Our Lady's Power is forgotten in an instant and a sudden surge of chains and shadows rising up from the ground like a furious serpent. Matte black links wrap themselves around poor, silly Étoile's ankles; she squeaks with fright and throws her arms shamelessly around Jerioth.

"Oh no! What's happening, what's happening? Oh, save me please, save me do!"

And if her terrified, flailing little arms happen to wrap themselves around a certain necklace woven with protections, she can hardly be blamed for the coincidence. And what happens in the resulting tumble is anybody's guess. The chains are insistent. They wrap and they squeeze and they pull, and together the pair of them sink into the floor. The sound of laughter echoes in the grand room, as dark as it is amused. And then, all assembled are left alone with the knowledge they've just seen another heist by the dreaded Phantom Thief, Marianne.

Poor Celestine must be furious right now. 

A floor below and who-knows-how-far down the hall, Étoile is yanked away from Jerioth and lands harshly on her butt. Not that there's time for her to do more than yelp to register the impact before she starts sinking again. The look in her eyes is pure terror. She wiggles helplessly, but sinks like a thief in quicksand. Or perhaps like a sinner, beneath the raging waves of the ocean, dragged down by the great weight of her own guilt. In any case, soon she is nothing but a vision of her perfect golden hair, even now begging to be caressed. And then she is gone. 

[i]Bonne nuit, Étoile. Bonne chasse, Marianne.[/i]

Her boot emerges from the wall first. It clomps down with malice, and drags a leg covered in tattered gray fabric out next. There is a rattling of chains. Around the waist, across the shoulders, singing the song of revolution against the percussion of a long, fluttering coat. Her hood casts a shadow over her face, but her eyes blaze so furiously that the elaborate loops of gold chainwork that make up her mask shine as brightly as they would in the plain day's sun. Yes, gold. All for her, a lowly human, to wrap herself up in and claim as hers before the servants of the gods themselves, dread fuel for the thing she claims is the power of her own soul. Foul, unworthy wretch. Wicked sinner, with no veil upon her darkened face. Her blouse flutters invitingly. Tauntingly.

She cracks her neck. Marianne revels in the moment and takes the time she can to loom over this Annunaki slave lord. She pulls the bright red glove on her right hand taut over her fingers, and tilts her head up so that her jaw is caught in the light. It may only be a trick of the light, but when she sneers you could swear her mouth is full of rubies shaped like crocodile teeth. 

"Sycophants," she spits, "And tyrants shall march together to the same gallows. Tonight you are [i]mine,[/i] little slave of Ishtar! You dance to [i]my[/i] song. Let us see if you dance as beautifully as your pets, yes!"

She leans forward, and her face splits itself in half with a sharply predatory grin.

[Unleash your powers: [b]10[/b]]