Phoe

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

Some people have melodic laughs, while others have deep belly laughs. Still others have rapid trills or even girlish, snorting giggles. Dulcinea... well, she's certainly got a laugh, you can be sure of that. It's quite possibly the most intensely dorky thing imaginable: squeaky little bursts that end in a sort of hiccup of breath every few seconds. Ahahahahaheeep! Haa ahahahaheeeeep! It's like someone's standing behind her head and flipping a switch on and off.

Right now she's stuck in her giggleloop so hard that she seems like she might burst. Her face has turned a very different shade of red, her hand is caught around her chopsticks still laden with noodles so that every hicsqueak dips them into and out of of the broth, and her eyes... well, actually, her eyes are glittering like diamonds. At some point later, which might have been a minute or might have been three full eternities but in any case coincides with her broth still being pleasantly hot, she drops a notch or two down in intensity to simple out-of-breath sighs and mini-spurts of smaller giggles.

"Oh! My! Goodness! I can't even! I just! You're so! Haha! Hee! You're the cutest! Heeep! Thing I've ever! Haha! Seen!"

Her hand finally regains enough control to bring her food to her lips. She slurps noisily, flinching a little when the flopping noodles splash soup on her face and in random flecks around the table. Her notebook, by astonishing coincidence, stays completely dry. She scribbles a series of tiny notes while she chews. Every sentence ends with a little heart.

"It'sh gonna bhe shho," gulp, swallow, "Sad when this stops working out. Metal. Definitely metal! How lucky can I get? No, but this is sad, actually. It's so sad. Alexa, play... egh, never mind. Gosh you're cute. Is everything so cute up where you're from? You know, once I actually... Hahaaaactually never mind that too."

Her pen hand unconsciously drifts up to brush her chest up and down, where the thin but kind of jagged scar lines lie hidden under her thick black clothes. Her hand rises higher still and she twists her hair around her pen. Around, around, around, release. The curls don't last more than a second, but it's soothing. Or, well. It would be. If she had a heart. Which she does not. Even though for some reason it almost feels like she does right now?

Weird.

"Right. Well. You seem to be laboring under a delusion or twenty, so in the interest of clarity let me be the one to break it to you: this is, in fact, the so-called "human realm". You'll notice all the humans about, if you look around? Provincial little sh-- ahchoo! Excuse me, sorry. But yeah, like, how's the food? Like it? Of course you liked it, I picked it! Hahahee! But no, tell me how it feels. In detail, if you wouldn't mind. What's your physiological response like right now? Emotional? Are you, in fact, experiencing the healing powers of a good, hot meal? Or do I need to feed yet another truism to my Truism-Devouring-Hound? You know, as... as soon as I make one of those. It's on my to-do list! Lotta wasted vocabulary on wasted truisms, you know. The world would be a much better place if we could all just focus on the-- sorry, sorry! But no no no, tell me tell me! Is the mouthfeel unctuous? Is the saltiness pleasing? Do you have the slightest idea what umami actually means? What's your first impression of caloric intake? Ohmygosh don't eat the egg yet!"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

The World of the Nameless Library is a truly twisted place. How fitting for a place even the decadent Annunaki tyrants feel the need to bury it three layers deep. 'Forbidden knowledge.' Ha! What a farce. If they really wanted their silly tablets to go unread, they would have destroyed them. This is just another layer in the pyramid scheme they call "The Great Chain". Of course it is. The Annunaki only ever 'forbid' anything so that it feels more luxurious for those who are permitted.

It's veils. Veils all the way down.

Navigating this spiraling maze of knife edges and shadowy whispers that slip off of everything like black muck is the most fun challenge Marianne has had in her short time on this earth. The glyphs run through the paths like veins, throbbing like the heart of a lovesick maiden. These are the only lights to navigate by. The landscape itself is nothing but pillars jabbing up out of the murk like giant spears stacked on top of each other at impossible angles. Sometimes they fit together almost like steps, only to suddenly break apart into gaps too wide to navigate without suicidally dangerous leaps or swings. Sometimes they melt underfoot and collapse, crumbling and screaming like frightened children, into the void of nothing that spreads between the corners of what most people would call the 'real world'. Even the air feels charged and tense, more than is usual for the hidden paths. These secrets have sharp edges. If it could be compared to anything, it would be like trying to breathe the sea, if the sea were filled with razor blades and free swimming tongues. All at once it's choking, cutting, wet, and terrifying enough to give a person nightmares for months.

Marianne laughs. She pitches through it at angles bodies were not meant to bend, in and out and in and out again before it can hurt her. Some nights when her heart was less clear, a place like this would be the death of her. But Marianne burns brightest when she burns hottest, and tonight that heart creature has stoked a rage in her so deep it may well risk seeping even into Étoile's life for a night or two. She'll have to take it out on herself. Images must be maintained. The mask must still be worn.

She plunders secret after secret with little rhyme or reason. Schoolyard tattling is as rich a reward to her as weapon designs or theoretical mumblings that might explain her own origins in whatever vague and stupid terms they might use. It will be horrible drudgery to sift through it all later, but what fun to disseminate the juicy bits to the public after that! The other side of the coin that comes with forbidding knowledge to fuel your fetishes is that any light that gets shined on it is automatically scandalous, no matter how pointless the actual tidbits may be.

But all good things must come to an end. Marianne does not have infinite time to play in here tonight, and the insides of her eye sockets are beginning to burn rather painfully. With deep reluctance, she forces them shut again, and lets herself fall to the proper floor with a heavy clonk of her boots. Her grin is as evil as it ever was. Her eyes weep smoke. She shifts to sling Jerry into both her arms, and flashes her one final deep look to remember the evening by.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"You seem scared. What is the matter?"

Marianne breathes deeply of the aftermath of Set's benediction and plants her foot firmly next to Jerry. There's a rustling of fabric, a jangling of chains, and she claps her hand on her prisoner's shoulder. She kneels, to put the sound of her breathing in Jerry's ear. Her impossible ruby grin is devouring her face. Her eyes glint like coals. Her emotion is: Delight. But the color is tainted dark and creepy, swirled up as it is in anger.

She takes her fingers gently under Jerry's chin and lifts her gaze to the many absurd murals on the walls. Every flinch and squirm summons a derisive bark of laughter.

"Your mind is clouded and milky, little cow. Can it be true? Is the exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar just a naughty girl afraid to face her spanking? Worry not! Your Ma! Ri! Ann! is here for you! She will show you a world beyond the silly bedroom antics of your little temples! She will open your eyes to the truth! Did you think your lessons were over? Non, non! Now is the most important moment of your classes with Professor Marianne! You must walk the paths, Jerry. You must see the way your little catalog means nothing and less to me! Come! Let us plunder the most forbidden secrets of your people, yes! Let it be the declaration of our love, yes yes!"

With careless grace, she scoops Jerry up off of her feet and tosses her roughly over one shoulder. Let her kick and squirm! Let her squeak! But let this be the moment little Jerry is baptized! Still cackling, Marianne tosses a sloppy and very unofficial salute in Set's direction and then walks into, and through, a wall. She reappears a quarter of the way up the cylinder, still hauling her precious student with her.

There are no locks to keep her out of anything in here. There is no need to follow the systems the Annunaki laid out for themselves. There is no need to fear their reprisal. She falls through the Nameless Library to rise higher. Twisting, singing, warping, stealing. Laughing. She is here for the materials relating to TIAMAT, whatever those may be, but this is rather like being a thief in an unguarded jewelry store, no? You cannot blame her if she plucks more than her fair share, and all the better if her little cow has no idea where her true target lies.

She must take some care to protect little Jerry's place in society, after all. Just a little. Or else she'll never be keep her promises to be the shield her many slaves require.

Breathless Dead

If Bella blushed any harder, she would probably faint. The air was hot and full of steam such that it had soaked through her fur even though she'd had the good sense not to dip herself in the water any more than she could help it. The heat permeated her entire body, right up to the tips of her ears, but truthfully it had very little to do with the temperature in the bath house. Bella's slender fingers clutched at the sponge like it was a gift from the gods, the only thing keeping her alive right now.

Her arms move rhythmically up and down, following the contours of her canvas. She wore the same look of grim awe she saw plastered across the face of every painter and sculptor she'd ever snuck a glance at while they were working, so the metaphor really held up in her opinion. Up and down. Up and down. Only a trace layer of soap in between her eyes and the most flawless skin she'd ever seen. Up and down. Up and down. She tries very hard not to stare, but it's impossible to do her work with her gaze stuck in the pool. Up and down. Up and down. And round and... out. It had been one thing to wash the back, but no part of her training could have prepared her to face Nero, Empress of all humanity, front-on.

Her heart hammered. Her arms shook. She kept tossing glances Redana's way, looking for comfort, but she was as naked as her mother, which was somehow even worse? Her only solace was that the both of them were deep into their wine, and a conversation about Imperial court etiquette that was so lofty Bella had no choice but to tune it out. It was easiest to look them in the eyes. They both had such beautiful eyes... one emerald, one sapphire. The Empress' were sharper and more dangerous by miles, but even she had that same... spark, maybe, that made Redana feel so...

"You there! Servitor!" There was a snapping of fingers, "Bella!"

She was so startled she nearly fell into the bath. That was her name! Her name! But that wasn't Redana's voice! She shot a foot into the air and landed in full curtsy, her ears pressed as flat against her skull as she could get them. She flinched sharply as the soaking wet hand reached up and patted her like a favored pet.

"Mm! Well answered, little one! My daughter is training you well!" The Empress flashed a proud smile more dazzling than even her body, and nodded to herself, "I require your mind! I have heard it said that sheer fabrics are unbecoming as the basis for a pattern on the front of a ballgown! But if you were to behold such a garment, would you..."

Bella's hand abruptly digs into the "Admiral's" hair and yanks it back as hard as she dares. She can't help but smirk at the brief wince of pain that breaks Mynx's composure. She glares down at the shapeshifter's upside down face for a moment before answering with a derisive snort. It's even more gratifying than she would have imagined to flick Grand Admiral Odoacer's nose. If only.

"Off limits, you creep. And by the way, while you're sitting here with your back to me, maybe you should stop and think for once in your life about how easy it would be for me to do this stupid bun wrong enough to let you get caught. It's kind of like your life is in my hands! So maybe you should try showing Her Imperial Highness some respect and quit looking for my buttons for thirty seconds so I can work!"

She smiles, flashing sharp teeth before snapping Mynx's head back in place and smoothing out the fresh tangles in the Admiral's ultra-fine hair.

Bella's fingers were made for this kind of work. They're long and clever, and when she's careful even her claws can manage to be gentle. Even soothing. It's the kind of work that mellows her out without her even realizing it. She's dressed the Princess for a thousand parties and public appearances, maybe even more, and has long since developed the kind of talent for it that lets her navigate almost any style you could name without the need for tools. Combs are a crutch, and Odoacer favored a bun that was less than half as intricate as it needed to be to fend off somebody like her. Especially since she doesn't need to fight Redana's stupid hair to do any of it. Unbelievable, how hard she made this job sometimes. How anyone could shower and still manage to come back stuck so full of clumps and knots was beyond comprehension. She wrinkles her nose at the memory, and scowls.

"...Next question." she adds, after a moment of silence.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Ugh, Set. She's talented, you have to give her that. Dedicated, too. Essential. But come on girl, where is your sense of the moment? This whole operation is being held together right now on the back of "Ma-ri-Ann's" reputation, and you won't lean into that even a little? Too much faith is dangerous, you know.

Marianne looms just behind Jerioth and puts a hand on her shoulder. It is not for comfort. Her fingers curl and squeeze just to the point of pain, then relax, hover, and squeeze again on a loop. She is seething. Do not grow too comfortable in your mask, Jerry. You must not think that bullying will save you.

Because it is essential that Jerry not consider the troll, Marianne makes a show of not considering it, either. Her eyes are only on Caphtor, or on the door, flickering like angry coals that cast her hungry smile in ghostly light. The emotions that she radiates are confidence and impatience. Do not ask her what colors those are; she has no patience for these analogies. She is waiting, she has waited, it is time, the door will open now. It will open for her. You cannot keep her out. You will not.

But underneath that... trolls. What a bothersome group of creatures they are. It's not that Marianne isn't confident she can defeat one, if it came to that. In fact she's done it once already; that's part of where her legend comes from. The problem is... well. The problem is that they are more like aliens than any of the other alien things that now occupy her world. The Annunaki themselves have left...

No. You do not get to talk about your feelings here, Étoile. Sleep and be silent. Swim in the sea of rage. Trolls are merely walls that emotions bounce off of. You cannot terrorize them. You cannot trick them. If they come at you then you must run or you must crush them, with no other alternatives.

And worst of all, they hit very hard. Marianne will never flinch from pain, nor will she fall from something as trivial as giant rocky fists. Not on a night like tonight when the fire in her heart is stoked so high. But she has her other life to consider. Étoile must weather the same wounds as Marianne, do not forget. A little bit of blood tonight will be essential, but if she snaps an arm and several ribs? It will be... problematic.

That is why she pays it no mind. She is waiting for her moment. The door will open, as it has to, and she will freshly break her little Jerry so that she will not slip back into her ugly self the second everyone's backs are turned. The image of it floods the front of her brain. Her face shall be lovely without that veil to mar it. But lovelier still will be the expression plastered all over it. The fear, the frustration, the humiliation! And best of all? The need. Let the walls of your civilization crumble before Marianne, Jerry! Give to her your soul, yes!

She watches, and she waits. She cannot keep the rumble of laughter locked inside her throat.

Breathless Dead

The snarl burns hot on Bella's face. The harder she pushes, the hotter she burns, until she thinks she must be suffering from some new poison of Mynx's, too. One that makes her arms stop shaking. One that tricks her legs into feeling strong again. One that makes her ears tingle with warmth and her cheeks flush hot and her heart flutter strangely as she stares deep into those lizard eyes and the svelte features of the shapeshifter's true(?) form.

...She is blushing. She realizes it too late. Bella hisses and pushes herself back off the ground with comical haste, looking disdainfully at the ground with a sour expression on her face that does less than nothing to hide her embarrassment.

"I am not being a..!"

She stops herself mid sentence; the giggling is only making things worse. Bella busies herself with straightening her entire outfit again, tugging her sleeves back into place with a pair of little chimes that themselves somehow manage to seem off kilter and flustered. She smooths out the wrinkles in her blouse and vest, and carefully tucks the shirt back into the waistline of her skirt before plucking a tiny amount of the fabric back up as is proper. She smooths the fur on her shoulders and tosses her hair behind her with a careless flick her her hands. She pats away the dirt that isn't there, and her tail snaps with irritation as she takes a deep breath.

It's only after all of this that she offers her hand down to the trickster still sprawled out and staring at her from the ground. She keeps her head very carefully turned away the entire time.

"Look, we're wasting time, ok? Every second they spend chasing after the Princess is another second she can use to disappear forever. You don't understand how good she is at that. S-so let's just... take this stupid ship already. We can play catch-up and twenty poisons after we're underway."

She's still got a Codexia to dispose of, somehow. She still needs to slip off of the Rex in the Admiral's own shuttle and get to Redana before the rest of the fleet can. And now she's got to do it with a scumbag faker at her heels, smiling and waiting to betray her the whole time. So why? Why does her chest feel so much lighter, all of a sudden? Why does her face feel so warm? Why does Aphrodite delight in torturing her so?

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

"The perfect bowl, huh? Well that's really... huh? No, the bar's fi-- I mean, uh... y-ye-yeah. Be-better make it a table for two."

Dulcinea's face flushes a deep pink color, like a sunrise. She quickly hides her cheeks in her hands and shyly looks down at the ground. Disaster. Oh, what a disaster, this is bad, there is no way this is not very very bad. But it's totally her fault for being so easy to talk to! So it's... it's, y'know...

It's fine, right? For today? Yeah. Just for today. It's just a good deed. Doesn't have to mean anything more than that.

She flops indelicately onto the pine booth seating and is halfway to unlacing her shoes before she remembers where she is. Maybe she's first, maybe she's second, can anyone really measure something as imprecise (and more importantly, sneaky) as time? Yes, but not without a functioning calendar. Lousy good for nothing thing. She sighs and sips at a perspiring glass of ice water already waiting for her.

"What was I saying? Oh, um, right yeah. Perfection. Mmm... isn't that impossible to say, really? I mean, that's the promise and allure of Infinity in the first place, that every new zenith looks out over a higher one out in the distance. I will tell you something, lady, every person needs a project, at all times, or they'll die. It might even mean they're dead already and it's more a question of waiting for fate to catch up with them or, or, well you know let's not bring metaphy-- hm? Oh. Yes yes, two cups of sencha, if you don't mind. Yes, hot. No, don't burn it. Yes, I know how your strainers work. No, don't talk t-- just let me take care of this. Thank you. Begone."

Dulcinea plucks a single menu out of the server's hands and uses it to wave her away, fishing a pen out of her bag with her opposite hand and twirling it back and forth between her fingers. She doesn't have anything to write on, but this feels important right now. She needs to be in control of this not-date for it to go right. Which is to say, properly. Which is to say, un-date-ily.

"Anyway not to belabor the point too much, but the day the world presents me with a fully answerable query is the day the universe finishes dying its heat death. But, you know, having said that... there are a few hard and fast rules! For one thing, the noodles are inescapably critical. If you don't have good ones you're just in for a bad time, I don't care how well you nailed the broth. For another thing, those have to be the first thing you eat. They're the last to go in and the least permanent. Noodles first, egg last. That's always the order of consumption, don't let anybody named Rinley tell you otherwise. For another, never overindex on acid or spice. There's no such thing as too much salt. Oh! And, for the the love of everything good in this world, never ever ever let someone sell you on grilled fruit as a topping. Or any amount of anything piled so high you can't actually find the soup. Those are distractions from the true path. Supplements should remain as supplements, that's critical. I feel."

Everything she orders, she orders in duplicate. It's easiest for her if she makes this easiest for Jasper, and that means giving her a functional mirror to copy behavior from. Chili oil to the side, please. Let's not curse this from word one by discovering too late this lovely perfect... platonic stranger has a tongue that doesn't handle spice very well. And by then it's too late. But boy, does everything she's doing make this feel very date-y. The knowing looks and the winks she keeps getting are going to be the death of her. Dulcinea is pinker than pink and trembling furiously by the time she finally gets another moment alone with her target. Acquaintance. Research specimen. Argh!

"S-so... um, you know anyway enough about me, ha ha ha, what's your... I mean, like, what brings you 'round these parts anyway? Your type's usually much too important and fance to get caught slumming it down here with us trash mobs for very long. So is it business or pleasure? Both? What kind of bet did you lose, anyway? What's your story, hon?"

Her lip quivers on the edge of a smile, and her pen hovers eagerly over the unblemished pages of a fresh notebook.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne is burning. Her eyes flash like three tiny stars and the chains about her waist and shoulders rattle excitedly in response to the visions filling her mind.

Oho? Oho? What is this, what is this? She's never seen anything so beautiful! Oho! Could this be love? Is she meant to be intimidated? She is not! She is filled to bursting with the heat of revolution, which feels just the same as blood lust, which feels just the same as romance. Behind her, her shadow rises to meet the challenge of this newcomer, heedless of its obviously superior potency. She spreads so wide and tall that she engulfs the entirety of the great sealed door and then some, twisting and mutating until her shadow bares no resemblance to the girl still folded against the door at all.

The front of her is tiger, matted and wet with shapes like spines jutting about here and there. Her great paws end in claws so massive and sharp that Jerry at least would swear they actually crack the ground. Around her body are great shadowy chains, and at the end of every set of links, the metal gives way to scales, and a great serpent's head flicks its huge forked tongue and wriggles about impatiently. The back of her is a formless, nameless something, perhaps it is recorded within the library, and perhaps it is not. Its name is Fear and its name is Vengeance and its name is Marianne. Is it a tail, or great stomping legs with crushing cloven hooves? Is it the great talons of some huge bird of prey? Is it writhing tentacles that curl and crush and maim? The light flickers, and the canopy of shadows fills in what the imagination of its audience cares to see. When she is stronger, she will impose the shape properly. For now, the eyes must wander up up up and up, where her head floats misshapen and disturbing, and when she smiles it splits the shadow head in half and it is a monster, she is a monster, there is no human with a shadow like this and...

She is alone. This strange mating dance is now here only for Set. Marianne huffs and diminishes back into herself. She stomps the remains of her cigarette with unnecessary force and twists her heavy heel against it until it can never be lit again.

"Don't be stupid," she hisses, and this is definitely what her pouting looks like. She was just given a treat and now it's been taken away, and all the emotions she doesn't know what to do with are spilling out into the chamber, "Jerry is much too useless to open the door by herself, no matter how long we give her to finish groveling! She needs, oh! Poor thing! She needs help! From an Inquisitor of Ereshkigal! And tonight that is you, yes yes! Congratulations on your promotion!"

She steps away from the door and takes several dramatic paces forwards, clapping and then spreading her hands wide.

"Jerry, you may begin! Do not dawdle, do not doubt me, and do not fail."

Breathless Dead

She's standing on kitten's legs. It could have been instant or it could have taken twenty minutes, she doesn't know, but someone threw a switch inside her and now her knees are wobbling with the strain of keeping her heavy body upright. Useless kitten's legs, too small and weak for the job. She can't stay standing anymore. She can feel her toes curling inside her boots, and with just that little motion the muscles that are supposed to be the proudest piece of her lineage melt into putty and she slips lower. Lower. Lower.

"Nngh, Mynx! You useless, guh, bastard! Faker! Th-this isn't a game... nnff! Anymore!"

Her claws drag across the surface of the bar, cutting deep grooves until they finally find enough purchase for her to drag herself back close enough to standing that she can look Mynx in her dumb lizard eyes. Her breathing feels ragged and labored. Her tail has gone limp, and her ears droop comically on top of her head, but her eyes are as sharp and full of fury as they have been since she left for space. Her arms may be straining just with the effort of keeping herself upright, but it makes her feel like a fighter just the same. That's enough to keep her tongue sharp through the honey-like wine.

"Don't you even think of leaving me behind! The Princess is my prey! I'm not, hhhhhff, gonna let you steal my glory! You'll never get your cushy little job back without me!"

Her face twists into a grim smile. There it is! Faker. Usurper! Always trying to take her spot, always worming her way into the Princess' good graces, trying to sit herself ahead of Bella, but where's that gotten her, huh? Look who didn't get taken, either! All those smug smiles, all that lying, and she got left behind just the same as everybody else!

Where did she... disappear to? Why wasn't she there when Bella was being punished? Why hadn't she lifted a finger to help her survive the Games? They were abandoned together! And yet! And yet!!

Bella slams her fist down loud enough to make every person in the area jump off their feet. Jealousy, anger, courage... whatever it's called, it surges inside her hotter and stronger than Mynx's poison. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to surge to full height. Just long enough to lunge and seize the bartender's vest the traitor was wearing for a disguise. She slumps again, but now she's dragged Mynx down to her level. Bella's breath is hot and thick with the scent of her own blood as it washes over Mynx's face.

"I'm getting on that ship. I'm going to see her. Odoacer couldn't stop me. You won't stop me. And then I'm doing my job. So if you want back into the Empress' good graces you'd better start making yourself useful real fast or I'll..."

Her nostrils flare involuntarily. And then? A tear wells up inside her beautiful golden eye and rolls softly down her cheek. She snarls. Adrenaline. Effect of the poison, nothing more.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne chuckles darkly as she watches Jerry grovel at her feet. It's not a full-blown evil laugh, the kind that would invite crashing thunder and blinding flashes of lightning, but you can hear the potential for all of that building in her throat. It's too much, seeing this exalted Annunaki in the exact pose she might this very same evening have demanded Étoile bend herself into had she said more than a handful of words out of line. Ah, but playtime is sadly almost over, n'est-ce pas?

"Come, little cow. It's time to open the door you say cannot be opened. We must be ready before our guest of honor arrives."

She curls her fingers onto her palm by way of waving and then flashes her terrifying wolfish grin to see Jerry crawl after her all hampered by her chains. That's good, yes! That's what you deserve, yes yes! She melts into the floor with a hop and a flutter of her long coat only to reappear a moment later, leaning against the door to the Nameless Library and casually lighting a cigarette.

It's an affectation, really, just part of the show. A trick stick she learned about back in high school when she needed ways to get back at Papa for whatever little things he did to upset her. But the smoke she can blow out is at once so casual and so dramatic that it's perfect for Marianne. She snorts a cloud of the stuff, like a dragon contemplating dinner.

"Do you like it here, Jerry? Is the decor to your taste? You'll be getting... intimately familiar with it tonight, yes." she tosses her head back and laughs at the involuntary shudder, "Aww, you're not surprised, are you? Every good thief leaves a calling card to mark their crimes, little cow. Tonight, you are mine. So make sure you leave an impression on your little friends when they find you~"

She's building dangerously close to that laugh, now. It's already echoing through the deep chamber, reaching the ears of the dangling guards who will hear it in their nightmares tonight. She stops herself to take another long drag of her cigarette, and breathes a deep ring of smoke out through the chains of her mask. She lets the light fall and stamps it out on the heel of her heavy boot. While she grinds it underfoot she inspects her gloves with casual disdain, pulling them tighter on her hands and then tucking her arms behind her head. She flashes another smile, all rubies and mirth with no love in it at all.

"You're picturing it, right? Don't worry, I'll take very good care of your veil. It'll be the crown jewel of my collection! Shall I take it now? You want that, don't you? You do, yes! Let Marianne take the weight of your repression from your face! Let us... ah. How disappointing, our Inquisitor has arrived. Greetings to my second key! Have you met my first?"