Staying silent as she's prodded and bantered at works wonders on giving her some sort of context to put this in. This is the unpleasant part of being a captive, right here. It is an unconventional interrogation, made by demons with snake-tails instead of legs, but the dance is there. Break, say something, reward or punishment depending on if they like it. Obedience yields rewards.

Fortunately for her tongue, training in this case says to stay silent. Her eyes follow the assistants and this new outfit being put on her, but she says nothing. And a different outfit it is, a different mockery of her normal layers and veils. She's concealed, technically, but the tight confines both show her body off in a distasteful way, and make it very difficult to move. A flex of her fingers and the gloves fight her. Take too far of a step and the heels will trip her up even if the skirt doesn't stop it. Cannot breath in too deep, cannot bend over too far.

She's worn something along this lines before. One of the few times she was acting as a noble, instead of a student or later a spy. That had the same proper layers and something closer to mobility, but it was a dress designed for appearances first, flattering her shape into something approaching the feminine ideal, topped with a brilliant blue peacock mask. Look at me, the center of attention, pay no attention to anybody else! A night of masked dancing and gossip, which was... new to her. It was odd, to be the one talking, instead of the one listening or the one being gossiped about. The dancing and not [i]caring[/i] who it was with, whose standing was important and who was to be scorned, that was novel. 

She'd ended the night holed up on a balcony off the servant's corridor, a brilliantly dressed woman with a chameleon mask her companion as they let the night breeze cool their skins. The masks had stayed on, a hint of propriety among the rest, and they fell asleep curled together, her companion stroking blue scars normally hidden under layers of cloth, proof of having survived a fey raid. The next morning she'd woken first and left down the wall, leaving mystery in her wake. A good time, that, one of precious few moments she was able to be instead of be useful.

Something to dwell on other than the surroundings, at least, where she must be useful or be tossed aside. She eyes the dress in a mirror, eyes briefly lingering on her side where the scars are concealed again, before nodding her approval. Restrictive, irritating, but stylish: the denizens of hell are terrible and to be opposed, but they have skill, otherwise there would be no point to their calling. An absent glance to the now-silent locked wardrobe, a twinge of pity (to be used and discarded is a tool's lot, but that was... unnecessary), and a baring of the lips that could pass for a smile.

[quote]String given to the demon-snakes.[/quote]