[b]Dolce![/b]

The bridge is, for lack of a better word, [i]trashed.[/i] You are ushered inside by a very sheepish (if you will excuse the pun) Mynx, who helps you navigate around the broken glass. There is a ridiculous amount of broken glass, as if many mirrors hanging on the walls had been shattered by strong hands. The culprit isn’t hard to find: her hands, already healed, still leave smears of her priceless blood on her glass. The room is full of the antiseptic smell of whiskey, and once again, the culprit isn’t hard to find, filling Redana’s shot glass again with a flourish of its velvet dressing gown.

Redana turns on her heel, back ramrod-straight, eyebrow arched in uncharacteristic confidence. Behind her, the god of madness waves, its mirror-mask reflecting a version of the room that most certainly is not real. At least, one sincerely hopes.

“Ah, [i]Mister[/i] Dolce,” Redana says, her words too crisp for the flush in her cheeks. Her jacket is pinned back at the breast, and its motif is the twin-headed eagle. “Capital! I see you received our word. There is a [i]ridiculous[/i] notion going around the crew that you are the Captain of the [i]Plousios.[/i]”

She takes a seat, glass crunching under her boots, and gestures for you to do the same. Dionysus sets a neon blue cocktail sweet enough to drown the room by your seat, a decadence to melt a sheep’s composure like candyfloss. Redana herself sips from her whiskey and then meditatively swirls it around her glass.

“This rescue mission is going to be difficult enough, what with the storm we’re going through.” She idly gestures at the rainbow knot of disaster, stretched across the wall impossibly wide, slowly gaining mass and terrible details as the [i]Plousios[/i] hurtles towards its doom. “We can’t have [i]ambiguities[/i] in the chain of command at a time like this, what? Why, you might even...”

Redana stops, and for a moment she looks lost and vacant. There’s a terrible ache in her eyes as she looks at you, as if she’s trying to remember who you are. Then her eyes slide back down to her drink, and she knocks it back.

“...I am prepared to take steps to stamp out mutiny,” says the mutineer, with absolute confidence regained. “But let’s do our best to avoid [i]unpleasantness,[/i] shall we? Bella here can’t wait forever.” She gestures at the God of Madness with that red-smeared hand, as if that explains everything. Then she leans forward and whispers, conspiratorially, as Dionysus fills her glass with amber again: “When I save her, she might finally accept my apology.”