A tilt of her head. Three flicks of her ears, a single swish of her tail. Mirror stretches her back and lifts her arms as slow and languidly as her body is capable of. She makes a show of lazy blinking, too. There is no need to walk away and find a step, tree, or couch to lounge on. She is already the taller cat. She frowns, which in her language means she's pleased or intrigued by some puzzle, but of everybody around her only Solarel is likely to know how to read her. 

She's wearing several perfumes tonight, and while they don't completely obliterate the mood pheromones Hybrasilians give off they do make watching her a confusing mess. Her posture is a mix of curiosity, comfort, and aggression, and her scent is... excitement? Agitation? She is either very mad or very turned on, or maybe both? Or maybe she's just wearing lily-scent even though it's toxic. Which is its own kind of riddle. She takes a step forward, and doesn't seem the least bit surprised to see Waxing Crescent Moon take a similar step back.

"Oh? Is that right? An offer, is it? How wonderful. I have only the deepest respect for enterprising kittens. Truly, I do. Though perhaps? If you don't mind a word of advice from an outsider, that is. Perhaps... do not grant The Varangian a contest of dominance if you're not prepared to fight above your normal level. She thinks about fighting more than you do. If you do what feels intuitive, she's already read you. That's free advice, by the way. It's difficult in the extreme to make profitable... offers from a losing position. Unless that was your plan? Aha. Well then I apologize."

Mirror tilts her head in the other direction. Her liquid eyes fall on the most beautiful doll she's ever seen. The scale painting is something new. She's not seen this before. It reminds her of girls dyeing their fur to create expressions beyond the natural representations made possible by their original patterns. But like most things from the Followers of Zaldar, this idea is new. It's different. There's a grace and even femininity to it that she hadn't thought to apply to the greatest pilot in the known universe. The thought surprises her. Why? Why hadn't she seen this dress, this pattern, this internalization of sacred Consortium arts coming. 

Because Solarel hadn't worn them before. Hadn't really shown an interest in fashion. Hadn't shown herself to be the type to think about it beyond the mood of the hour. But this? This was a deliberate choice. This was a great dolt taking even greater care to think through every aspect of her appearance for a night, and then waiting for random passers-by in a crowded bar to approach her. To see what may? No. Look again. The crossing of the dress, the cream color. The importance of it. Machine stitched, from the look of things. But stitched. She fought like she cared more about what happened to her outfit than to her. That's what made Crescent's victory possible to engineer in the first place.

What did [i]that[/i] mean? Looking again, this doll was dressed for purpose. She'd turned herself into one of those Princesses, the kind that hid behind the gambits of her guards and waited for a brave Prince to sweep her off her feet... or send her tumbling into depravity. Look again, look again. Who does she compliment? Who had she been thinking of, all this time? Mirror plucks at the fabric of her suit. Her tail lifts high behind her, and cracks down like a whip.

"...You asked me a question. Yes, you can assist me. Yes, I'll tell you how. Do you see this pretty doll? Look what you've done to her; she begs with her eyes to be posed. As it happens, I am working tonight. I am acting as a model for the final line of fashions being debuted tonight. When my turn comes up, judging by your strike, her legs should just be beginning to regain their function. Unless she does something stupid, but let's trust her judgment. When I take the stage, she will need someone to point her in the right direction. She will need strong, skilled hands to lift her head and point it where it belongs. Make sure she watches. Make sure she sees everything. And then, when that is done? Please. Make your offer. Enjoy your, mmmmmm, [i]snack[/i]. Show this lovely woman your best night, with Whispered Promise's blessing."

Mirror brushes the sleeves of her jacket smooth with the same deliberateness and lack of haste she's been moving with since she stumbled across this farce. Every wrinkle carefully pressed flat. She blinks one last time, and turns to take Valentina by the hand again. She can't resist leaning in for a kiss, this time on the neck. A kiss of lips, a kiss of fangs. 

"I am sorry for the interruption," she says with a slick smile, "Life of a traveler, you know. A... in your language, a Knight? I believe? Work follows me everywhere. Come along, if you wouldn't mind. You said these current lines were your favorite, didn't you? We shouldn't miss this. Personally I would love to see you in that suit there almost as much as I enjoy your dress tonight. Are you more for those boots, or do the cuffs agree with you better?"

Her ear bends back as she walks, attentive to her date's answers. But her eyes are locked entirely onto the stage. Linterna Brilliante. The offering makes her scowl. It's not a question of craftsmanship or artistry, not at all. Even the light shows feel appropriately playful, and the silent nature of the thing has a beauty in its own right. It's all the flashes of war stripped of their horrors and turned solely to the art of beautification, and encouragement for the brave or... perhaps the rich among them to make better versions of themselves, if they could simply reach out and take hold of these dreams.

Except. It echoes the work of the amateur lines so strongly that it feels pre-planned. A loose thread pulled tight and held low to trip the first poor fool that came rushing out. Then the second. Then the third. She will not take back her words about the importance of giving the new minds of the field a chance to stand on the same stage. But to take their ideas and display them with the benefit of a more practiced hand and larger store of materials? This is what they call bullying. It would take a miracle for these poor artists to feel the rising tides, now. Someone would have to have been so starstruck by the promise of those drones, or the aesthetic potential of neural mesh (which was, in fact, worth considering!) that they dumped an absurd amount of money on the prototypes before waiting till the end of the night to see the finished product.

She'd like to meet the kind of idiot who'd do that sort of thing. Maybe to kiss? Maybe to punch? Maybe, both. In any case it's an impossibility. The list of people in attendance is elite among the elite. You have to walk the length of an entire research station back to find the throngs filled with hearts that much faster than the minds they pump blood for, and those poor dears lack the voice, the reach, or the resources to make anything happen about it. 

She puts it out of her mind. Her fingers sneak up Valentina's arm, soft and teasing brush strokes. They tickle, they excite, they incite a shiver. And if her date should lose her balance? She'll be there to catch her. So swiftly and strongly only the pair of them will even know a stumble happened in the first place. A private moment in the middle of the vortex.