Jasmine is the gag that binds her tongue. 

It is a hundred times worse than being in the Admiral's dining hall. It isn't any less overwhelmingly potent than her memories of that place, but instead of the swirling cocktail of information and despair, this is like trying to breathe in a one-note bomb. No... not one-note. Bella wrinkles her nose and pulls her lips up over her teeth. There's a... spice sneaking underneath the floral miasma, like inhaling sparks from a fire. 

It itches. It burns. It swallows the rest of the room, the feeling of her clothes and the breeze, even the expression on Beljani's face. It's like having a wad of cotton rolled onto her tongue, like a permanent shiver stuck in her back, like a... like a... a hole that's swallowing her up and trapping her inside a world she can't master with a thousand years of trying. No antivenoms for her. Why should [i]she[/i] get the protections Mynx has apparently been handing out to every other last member of the ship. Stupid bitch, she probably did this on purpose. Just to see. Just, to... just...

Only one sensation that manages to rise above the noise. She feels it rising up from her stomach in an unmistakable surge of panic (Not panic. It's not panic. She is [i]not[/i] afraid). The wine tastes just as oily and soft coming back into her mouth as it did going down. Bella blinks in surprise and clenches her teeth to keep the precious gift from spilling out between her lips. She swallows it back down with delicate politeness. That wine is the embrace of the Empress; she will not waste a drop. 

As it slips back down her throat, she can feel it start to drag her down with it. There, at last: it squeezes at her muscles, it rolls inside her stomach, it wraps around her with the warmth of a favorite blanket that weighs her body down with that comfortable and familiar sensation of pressure. She unwinds over the course of several long, deep breaths. Uncoils, really. Her ears droop and her tail sways stupidly behind her, every little swish pulling her down, down, down, draining her until she's empty of everything. 

Then it fills her up again with desire. To stumble back to her room and not leave her bed. To be touched. To lean her weight on something that can bear it and feel the relief that comes with support. Her eyes flicker lazily at Mynx. 

It takes the effort of an olympic champion to get her to flick her ears until they stand at attention, ready to listen for all the little cues she needs to hold on. It's even harder for her to keep her feet underneath her, to make her arms fold underneath her chest instead of flopping uselessly at her sides. She twists her lips into a confident and sharp-fanged smile, which takes greater will by far than everything else combined.

"Izzat right?" she slurs as she squeezes her claws into her elbows, "You know, talking to you I almost wouldn't believe you're one of them. So eloquent! Such... mm, good breeding. And yet, here you are, stuck in your corner in front of a perfumed fan. So out with it already. I'm really curious! How exactly do I break you, pretty bomb?"