Even with all this extra time to sort through it, Mosaic's wardrobe remained a horrifying clusterfuck of bad decisions. Everything read like the decisions of some drunk-off-her-ass pillaging mercenary or someone cursed to only be able to wear things gifted to them on different days by different people. Everything that woman was was defined by her name, and worse than that by [i]pride[/i] in that name. Contrasts in colors and fabrics and lengths and styles and just... herself, reflected endlessly, intentionally highlighting all her worst features as if they were her best. 

Like she wasn't afraid of the scars or the fur [i]or[/i] the skin. Like she was proud of her muscles and her fat at the same time. Like the ignorant rube whose only accomplishment was crawling out of the Lethe and passing out on a beach had somehow transcended the woman she'd replaced without even knowing who she was. It made Bella sick just looking at it. All of it was hideous and ill-fitting and tripping over itself fawning over Artemis, which was a hell of a thing to stick to yourself when you [i]couldn't even hunt right you idiot[/i]. 

But she was stuck with all of it. Bella couldn't tear every last scrap of clothing apart trying to stitch it into something workable without it arousing even more suspicion in the crew of this new [i]Plosious[/i] than she did just by existing. Never mind disappointing them, she didn't want to think about what some of them would do to her when they realized their great hero had been replaced by a broken servant of an empire that had apparently died before living memory. So all she could do was root around in the pile until she could find something that at least didn't make her feel hideous to walk around in.

Besides, it's not like she needed another reason to feel inferior to her shell after that debacle of a "strategy meeting" with the allies she couldn't stop yelling at. That's what brought her here to [i]this[/i] meeting in the most feminine thing Mosaic owned: a glittering coral colored gown on spaghetti straps with a plunging neckline to kill a god. The high slit on the right thigh exposed the form fitting black leather pants that went with it for some inexplicable reason, along with the crossing golden chains that helixed their way down her legs all the way to her ankles and the flat, soft shoes that covered her feet. At least the elbow-length gloves, for all that the gaudy teal color ran against her fur, covered up the healing her arm was still undergoing. 

Bella glares at the sheep with a practiced haughtiness that somehow conveys the title 'Praetor' in a land where the word had no meaning. Odd. She thought the Synnefo favored soft and bottom-heavy, unassuming builds. The sort of thing that hid what they were capable of, like Dolce. This one looks like he gets in fistfights for the fun of it. Can't trust that. But can't pivot. Stuck. She runs her tongue over a tooth to keep from frowning too obviously.

"It's not a bad deal for either of us. You mind if we get all this in writing? My sister believes it makes for better hunting. Actually on that note, I'll lend her to you while we handle your wolf problem if you can promise me there'll be some decent food and clothing in our supply drop. We're desperate."

She plucks at her dress with a grimace. Very, very desperate.