[hr][center][sub][color=cecece]DAY 1[/color] [color=af4052]《》[/color] [color=cecece]STEELWATER [RD-PRS][/color] [color=af4052]《》[/color] [color=cecece]Afternoon[/color] [color=af4052]《》[/color] [@Rockette][@DeadDrop][/sub][/center][hr][table][row][/row][row][cell][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5383358][img]https://i.imgur.com/IUeqDF0.jpg[/img][/url][color=2e2c2c]▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇[/color][/cell][cell][quote]

[color=8d8e8f]	[color=cf9792]"I told you, it's [i]fine[/i]."[/color] Scylla drawls, blouse pooled on her wrists, sporting nothing but unassuming negligee that offset the pallor of skin blemished and bruised. Eyes linger upon her back, she knows, feeling tacking stares that ping down her inked and scaled back and set her spine rigid in posture. The bruises circling her torso are observed and prodded, photographed even despite her protests in the language of frigid stares and thinned lips. Someone mutters an apology: [i]your highness[/i]. It slips out on a uttered reflex because they [i]know[/i] who she is and what: an assistant beckons and Scylla laughs. [i]Leviathan.[/i]

	[color=cf9792]"I'm not royalty. Just ask my [i]father.[/i]"[/color] It's a whisper, one whistled through pursed lips as the explanations from Emilia bubble and fall on her ears. Scylla cuts her a glance over her shoulder, idle movements lifting her blouse back over head, making note to ask that one Aeon - the [i]fashionable[/i] one - to perhaps sew the miniscule gaps now along her sleeves. It bothers her, only slightly really, to have those certain appellations pinned to her presence and fixating her reputation beyond the reaches of her own name. She should be used to it by now, of course, but --

As mother would say, own that shit.
 
Scylla's attention mills around as the Research Division unfolds around them, it's not unfamiliar really, Dragoon forces often took shelter in battle grounds much like this - not as chaotic - but none the less serving as an infirmary. Her gaze though quickly peels away from the bustling activity and curiously pins onto Robert, completed with an inquisitive head tilt. He speaks her name, and she likes the way it sounds, a little charming, a little intentional much like the way she leans forward. [color=cf9792]"Oh, I imagine we could get pretty creative."[/color] Hair now fallen over her shoulder, voice lowered to a whisper and says: [color=cf9792]"Catch a break, [i]eat[/i] and --"[/color]

The universe would not wait for the suggestion planted there, a seed of wanton expectation, and Scylla labeled the encounter for another time as the world became awash in reds and blacks.

The clouds of brown smoke was an unnerving sight, her spirits of water and air vibrating in their area of influence as Robert fled down the hall, fired. First in, last out. The embellishments of a man with a death wish. Her spear and rifle were left upstairs, no good down here in gloom and doom of the undead it would seem. There's something about them that summons a peculiar sense of having seen their like before, the twitching limbs, the deadened stare and ravenous appetite to maim and destroy - to feed. Scylla has one pistol drawn immediately, her movements fluid as she kneels just for a moment to pull the shiv free from her boot and sprints down the hall after Robert.

	[color=cf9792]"Down,"[/color] she snaps, using her momentum to strike from the flank, bullets chambered and then fired, that little razor lancing out with a wicked gleam on the blade. She doesn't allow herself to think about that maybe just a few moments ago that they had been [i]people[/i]. Delicately mortal and mundane. 

Through the head and neck she strikes, one down, still more to go.

 
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