Phoe

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Uhuh! Uhuh! lamassie is good at finding treats! Watch, Lady! Watch!"

Étoile's voice drips with saccharine as she carefully sheds her heavy pack and places it gingerly on the ground. The second that finger touched her nose, she was doomed. There's work to do, appearances to maintain, moral quandaries to defeat, people to tranq, and quite honestly probably also some sort of incredibly mean prank to 'accidentally' thwart. And that's to say nothing of all the planning and prep work she needs to keep in her mental load today so she's ready for this evening's chores!

Buuuuuuuut~

Lady said it's playtime! She's not wearing her special outfit but she still gets to be lamassie! Lady's silly little pet who keeps her heart and the smile on her face! She doesn't need to be smart! She doesn't need to juggle all the expectations everyone has for her all the time! She can relax, 'cause she just needs to... oh! She's supposed to find treats for Lady! Sniff sniff!

Even under a veil, the silly smile plastered on Étoile's face is easy to see. Vapid is the wrong word for it. But if you heard her say she hates this, you wouldn't need powers of the heart or mind to know she's lying. Are there treats over here? She prances away on silly, bouncing feet and pokes about at another table. Sniff sniff, sniff sniff! Nope, no treats here! She trots off to another, and hops on top of it! Sniff, sniff sniff! Nope, not here either!

They're not under the worn out umbrellas, nope! Not under the chair, nope nope! Where are Lady's treats? Are they hidden by her feet? Sniff sniff! Lady's giggles are music that sets Étoile's heart on fire. Every bit of her is melting, melting, melting into little pools of bliss. The stiffness in her back that's been there ever since Marianne took the chains to her finally unclenches, and when she coils around the table it's with liquid grace. Her eyes are happy eyes! Her smile is just the cutest! Her mincing little prance elicits so much praise from Lady she thinks she might float off into the sky!

She's halfway to the stairs back toward the kitchen when she stops and smacks her head on the palm of her hand! Silly lamassie! Check Lady's bag if you want Lady's treats! She makes a big show of rooting around in there with her face, top down and bottom up, sniff sniff sniffing until she (very carefully) pulls herself free and fishes out the three containers full of pre-prepared food she knows are in there. Lady's tummy is very delicate! She can't just eat whatever lamassie finds in this place, silly!

She trots back and lays the spread across the table, pausing every so often with a little look that's begging for something she hasn't quite earned yet. These are good snacks! The best snacks! Cool and refreshing! Spiced so very delicately! Covered with rich cream! lamassie can't remember the names for any of these foods, but she knows they're Lady's favorite, yes they are! Her little picnic is even nicer than Étoile dreamed it would be!

Because? When she's finished? lamassie plops down on the ground with her legs folded under her and rests her head on Lady's thighs. This is her favorite playtime position. The Annunaki are naturally warmer than humans, so resting her head here feels just like burying her face in a sweater fresh from the dryer! It's soooooo nice! She snuggles herself in nice and close, and stares up at her Lady with the most soulful eyes she can.

Call her a good girl? Please?

Breathless Dead

There's a stench in the air that has nothing to do with the blood being spilled or the weapons being fired. Bella breathes deep, and her golden eyes go wide as her lungs fill with it. It's a very particular aroma, the kind of thing even a clever nose would miss if it hadn't been trained to look for it. A vague sourness that reminds her of vinegar that's been drizzled over top the musty fur that must permanently cling to these poor bastards after having spent gods know how long stuck in this vast, sweltering death jungle.

A pheromone? Her lips curl upward. It's not a language she speaks a single word of, but it probably drives each of these 'proud warriors' into a frenzy. Doesn't it, you Ceronian sons of bitches! HA! Bella crouches low to the ground with her fingers curling and uncurling in anticipation. Her claws are sharper than death; her talon ornaments gleam wickedly silver in the light of the palace.

There's a spark of something that's like a thought, but it's drowned under a wave of action. Bella pounces forward, pushing off the ground with her hands until she settles into huge, loping strides that cover several meters in a bound. The entire time she flies, her eyes stay locked onto Queen Hatchan. That's right, no one else matters. That's the bitch who thinks she can hurt the princess. As if better mutts than her hadn't tried!

Her entire body is as tense as wire being pulled across a fence. Her fur ripples under sinewy muscles so diamond hard they could be from the Walls of Tellus. She coils, like a spring, and... then!

She leaps.

Where the Queen comes in high, Bella rises from the ground. Where she seeks to take Redana's back, Bella rushes from the front. Are you watching from your dreams, princess? Your Bella's teeth shine like pearls as she snarls and launches over the top of the Nemean like a javelin hurled by Zeus herself. Yes, she, Bella just now is made of lightning. She passes so close to the statuesque warrior that her skirts brush the Redana-shell's face. Her foot lands on that broad, steely shoulder, and launches her further into the air.

It's a battle of angles, but a war of intent. Bella's momentum carries her into the Queen and turns what had been a killing blow into a crunching flop that bounces the godless wench's head off the ground once, twice, thrice before she settles into a dull skid with Bella's hand clenched across her throat.

Bella's legs clench across the Queen's ribs, and she squeezes them like she's trying to grind Hatchan's bones into powder, or bend them inward until they stab through her lungs and leave her to float off to the depths of whatever dark hell Hades keeps for people like this. Her claws glint as she raises her right arm behind her, bent at the elbow, shoulder blades taut and protruding, fingers pressed together like a knife.

Her eyes gleam with wild triumph. Yes! Yes! YES! It's her! The justice of the gods! Not Jas'o, not the living statue, not Redana or her Shadow, but her! Bella! This is the face of your doom, bitch! She doesn't speak the words, but they drip from her terrible fangs as her face twists into a truly horrible and ugly grin. This is the face of victory. This is the face of death.

"Don't you. Touch her!"

She drags her left hand up across the Queen's throat until her fingers are clutching at the jawline. With surprising strength, she bends the head back: tilting her, curving her spine like a rainbow, pushing her neck out. Her hand squeezes tighter and tighter. She feels the moment where the jaw dislocates, and that's when she does it. Hrrah! Her voice cuts through the palace. Her hand cuts through the air.

Without hesitation, Bella plunges her claws into that soft throat and buries them up to the wrist. She draws a deep breath that shudders through her entire body, and wrenches herself free. Safe. You're safe now, Princess. See? Your Bella is all you ever needed.

[Finish with Blood: 10]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile stares at the entrance to the haunted mansion with a sour look hidden under her veil. It bothered her that every decision felt like a wrong one. Go inside? Could be a trap. Might be a duck. Hard to say which would be worse. And even then, if not, if she'd just seen a compliant and ready-for-catching person? It still didn't... listen, Lady might be silly and sweet, and tranqs are tranqs, but Étoile did not want her hunting anybody.

She'd had a plan, when she woke up this morning. It was a pretty simple plan, too! She'd get here with Lady, tell her stories about human hunting traditions and then help her climb onto the roof of an old concession stand or something and just... wait. Eventually, she'd break out a parasol to keep Lady Tamytha out of the sun for too long, she'd arrange a picnic (it was all in her pack anyway), and they'd sit there together talking and letting the day pass them by. Probably no humans (feral or otherwise) would come within a thousand meters of the pair of them.

But then Jezcha happened. Well, the trip was her idea in the first place, the problem is that her friends happened, too. Terrible things happened when those disgusting pigs gathered in numbers, and if Tamytha came up empty handed they'd feel provoked for certain. Best not to think about it. Best not. Don't think about the whips or the big, heavy gauntlets they put on for punishments, don't think about how easy it would be for them to switch to lethal ammunition to teach Her Ladyship a lesson in why you couldn't afford to be soft with humans. Or if they... non, Étoile. We are not thinking about this, remember?

Behind her, there's a squeak, and then a chorus of angry honking. And before she can form another thought Étoile has already spun around and run three paces in the other direction, 'hey hey'ing and banging the heavy rifle she's still holding against the metal of her gauntleted hand. She is the brave chevalier riding forth to do battle with demon mallards on behalf of her Lady.

"Ah! Ah! Go, shoo, shoo! Leave her alone, you brutes! Little fiends! Have you forgotten the French know your secret? Get away before I remind you how good you taste with orange sauce!"

Fighting off wild ducks is a contest of wills. Either you convince them you are big and scary, or they convince you how much it hurts to be bitten by duck bills. Which is a lot! But these ducks, ah! Poor fools! Not one of them can stand against the soul that cages the brilliant fires of Marianne. They squawk in protest and flap away to parts unknown, where if there's justice in the world they'll introduce Jezcha's butt to their brand of pain.

And Étoile, wearing her mask with pride, gives Tamytha a bow and a hidden smile before she stoops to one knee and kisses Her Ladyships hand through her veil.

"Are you alright, Lady? Goodness, that was close!"

Breathless Dead

The smell of ozone brings her up short. Metallic, burning, and deep, like the cleaning chemicals she used in the palace but wrapped in electricity. It's the scent poems call Justice, which Bella hated reading. It's the scent of Zeus Olympios, the songs all say, which Bella hated singing. But really, more than anything else, it's the scent of failure. It's what punishment smells like.

You can't notice a thing like that and not think that something horrible is about to happen. The very best thing it could possibly be is a Thunderbolt from somebody like Jas'o, and that's already bad enough to make Bella sprint faster than she's ever gone before. She's half a lightning bolt herself, dropping her body lower, dropping all pretense and bounding on all fours every time she hits a particularly steep incline because she must be as fast as the wind, as the gods. Even though her lungs burn with the effort of the climb, she sprints as if trying to outrun a bolt of lightning.

And the reward for her haste is that she makes it just in time to see Redana collapse in on herself. Her princess. Her princess! Gone! Bella's lungs turn inside out. A second ago they'd been heaving with effort to suck in every last bit of thunder-soaked air they could get. Now, they expel it like a plague. Bella is frozen in place. Her hands are clamped like iron over her face, but they can't keep the strangled scream from escaping her lips. Redana! Redana! No! Gods, please, if there's a merciful soul among your miserable lot, O Zeus, whom she has never had the courage to pray to before, please don't let please don't please please don't take her princess like this don't don't don't don't...

Perhaps this is what it means to have a prayer answered. And perhaps that answer is why Bella so rarely prays. Her scream dies down into a surprised squeak. Her arms fall limply to her sides. Her mouth falls open, and her face is slack and stupid. For the first time since she got rescued from the box, Bella looks up at the face of her princess.

It is just barely possible to know that this... this War Queen is the same as her Redana. The contours of their jaws follow the same lines, and the nose is just the same. The width of her hips and the particular quality of her muscles, though they are both larger in this form, have the same proportions as her princess. It's like staring through a window into another reality, one where Zeus took primary responsibility for raising Redana instead of Nero. But all of this could be explained away as the trick of her eyes and her desperate heart, except for... the smell.

Underneath the hated wisps of lightning breath, Redana's scent is overwhelming. The tang of her sweat: musky, with a tiny note of saltiness atop a wave of sweet... unique in all creation. Nobody smells like Redana except Redana. You could chain Bella inside a dark cave for a thousand years, leave her to forget everything she's ever known, and she would still be able to name this specific smell. But what is? Bella watches in awe as her princess hefts an axe and effortlessly cleaves through multiple warriors of legendary skill as if they were paper props in a play about her exploits. Her cheeks grow warm, and it takes her a long moment to realize she is blushing. Her tail rises all by itself, the tip curling in on itself with excite... relief. This is relief. Relief and awe.

"Red... Redana?" she breathes, forgetting all her etiquette inside the thick stew of her emotions. "Princess, is that..?"

Breathless Dead

"It's because he's human, isn't it?"

Bella's voice is soft and melancholy, but tinged with frustration as she prowls back and forth along a small length of the wall. She strains her neck to look at the gate again. Shakes her head, no. Suicide. Even if she gets past unrecognized she'll be swept up in a wave of Ceronian vengeance.

"That's why it gets to be him. Feh. What makes the Bitch of Ceron so special? Better give her the fancy executioner, the kind you get songs for!"

Not for the first time, she runs her fingers across the surface of the wall. It's a strange material, whatever it is. It feels slick, almost greasy on her fingers, but when she pulls her hand away her skin's as clean as the Empress herself could ask of her. She taps her talons against it experimentally. She hisses; this is im-- no! Not here! Not this close!

She pulls her hand back and smashes it against the walls of the village with a sharp and impossibly loud crack, her fingers splayed wide apart and curled to give her claws maximum purchase. Immediately, she regrets it. Her ears bend themselves silly straining for sounds of approaching enemies. Her head whips from side to side of its own volition, staring across the vast and horribly empty fields where anything at all could be waiting to get her.

But for once, nothing is. She turns again to look at her hand, buried to her first knuckles in the polymer. Bella takes one last sidelong glance at King Jas'o and his new army of legendary super soldiers. Lucky fuck. All because he's human. Shining. Sacred. Like he'd be worth any of this if there were a single qualified person around.

"It's all for shit anyway, right?"

She seethes, launching herself up several meters with a violent lunge that ends with a crushing blow to the wall with her opposite hand. Her eyes flick down toward the ground again, just before she kicks off the wall and lunges up again. Her boots scramble madly on the enigmatic coating, and it's impossible to find any real purchase, let alone make any sort of fast and graceful leap the way she was intending. She swings awkwardly from her hand as her fingers scream at her to let go and drop before they break.

Her right hand smashes itself into the wall a little ways above her. She pulls her legs close together and wraps her tail around her hips to keep her balance as perfectly as possible. Fine then; upper body strength it is. Every lunge is vicious, a perfect kill strike. She pulls her entire weight up with nothing to support her but the power of her arms and shoulders. By the half way mark, she's trembling.

"...I mean, once he's gone and sacked this place, he'll go right back to being a useless, scum sucking pawn with a shiny toy crown. Not even! When Odoacer finds out he doesn't have the princess, haha, she's going to kill him! I wish I could be there to watch. I wanna see the light in his eyes go out when she strings him up by his balls. Heh..."

She turns to look, but Hera has no more words for her. She never does, after she's left her balm. There is a smile on the goddess' face, and then she turns away to other matters is is gone completely. Bella smirks. She's not shaking anymore. She claws her way up to the top, whether it wants her to or not. Whether she's a favorite of any of the high and mighty war gods or just a pawn of a few others. Bella is determined. This is just another Game for her to conquer. She is inevitable.

She is Queen of the Ceronian Wall. She pauses for only a moment to catch her breath. That moment is filled with a vision of the future. Her back is shivering with agony, but she makes no complaint of it. Her ship, the Empress' gift, is as dingy and uninviting as it's ever been, but in this moment she welcomes it. There is a bath with hot water, and Bella is washing her Princess' back to take her mind off of her terrible journeys. She is quiet and respectful, not even requesting an apology from Redana while she recounts her many ridiculous adventures out here in space. The Princess is stepping out. Bella averts her eyes and stares respectfully into the water, watching Redana's reflection wrap itself in a towel and saunter off to the one well-furnished chamber where she'll be sleeping for the trip home. Trembling, Bella slides into the water herself, still hot, Redana's water, sharing her warmth and soothing her wounds and...

She leaps from the wall and banishes the image with the dark swoop of flight. Some kind of garden she's never seen before breaks her fall; the tangle of destroyed vegetation wilts pathetically as she springs off of it. She doesn't spare any of it a second glance. She runs, form of a champion, only forward, forward, forward, and up the final here.

She is coming, Princess. She is here.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Hm? I... oh! Oh yes, of course! My parents brought me here when I was small! And a second time to celebrate my si... a-as a reward. This was a place for families, you see. There were costumes and characters and parades, places to play and too-sweet foods and drinks you would never ever make room for at any other time. And best of all, huge, grand rail cars that would carry you through the sky in great loops until you felt your stomach squeeze inside you and just swoop, and... ah."

Étoile trails off into nothing, and suddenly becomes intensely interested in her own feet as they scuff little patterns on the ground. She's been staring again. She's only just realized. Ah, zut, zut, et zut! Bad Étoile, stop noticing! Sweet as she is, the Lady is still of your enemy, the time will come when you must tear down everything she knows! Do not make Marianne's work harder by admiring her charms! So what that her shoulders are delicate and lovely? So what that her smile is sweeter than cake? Do not love her awkwardness, Étoile, do not let your heart race at the sight of her gangly legs! Do not become attached to everything that separates her from other Annunaki! Have you already forgotten why you're here? Do not!

...Besides, if she keeps this up she'll make trouble for Lady Tamytha and herself. She should be mad at herself for how well the thought motivates her, but even Marianne is silent. She lifts her head again with a melodious giggle at her own expense.

"I am sorry, this must all be very silly and boring for you. Compared with the majesty of your society, I'm sure none of our toys would have interested you for more than a moment. And of course that place is gone now anyway. Thank goodness your people found a use for it more, um... suited? To, like, your stature? Tee hee!"

Étoile leaps forward with a ridiculous two-legged hop. It's an awkward and ungainly way to move, and with the heavy pack on her shoulders she has to wobble and wave her arms about in a panic to avoid spilling over. Silly Étoile! Silly lamassie! Silly girl with no room inside her head for sadness or to think through the consequences of why she's here today. She recovers her balance, and gives a tiny bow.

"Well then! It's a fun fun fun day ahead of us, so if Lady wishes it please follow your guiding star! She will show you all the hidden places humans would think to squeeze themselves inside of!"

Her gait is wasteful and mincing, wandering in serpentine patterns this way and that. Every few steps, she skips. It's a goofy way of moving that gets her nowhere fast, with many glances backwards to see if Lady is keeping up. She won't need to strain herself to keep up this way, without it seeming like Étoile is hanging back to make up for Lady's... erm, shortcomings with her stamina. For a minute, maybe two, maybe ten, or goodness could she be all lucky to make it last all day? But for however long she can, she'll help her Lady fit in. Just another noble and her silly little handmaiden, the envy of those assembled.

Her stomach dips in a way that has nothing to do with roller coasters. How was she supposed to do this? She couldn't really let Tamytha shoot anybody, could she?

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Étoile's ensemble today features a lower and looser ponytail than Tamytha usually prefers to see her in, with a coral hairpin tying it in place right at the base of her neck. Nods to impracticality seem to be the theme of the day. She's been dressed in a tight fitting dress in the same palette as her veil: shimmering teals and then pink accents around all the stitching. The collar reaches high on her neck so that it actually covers under the more literal collar she was put in after, while the sleeveless design has been accented with a pair of delicate silver pauldrons with long loops of soft pink silk tied through them, which would be beautiful under most circumstances but today (like her hair) they keep getting stuck on her pack.

Apparently, Lady Tamytha had been inspired by old Earth stories of chevalier, because she'd also put Étoile in an ornate silver gauntlet with impossibly intricate metalworking in all kinds of incredibly distracting spirals and loops that covered her from wrist to elbow. It was much more difficult to bend her arm wearing this than usual, so it was a lucky thing Lady Tamytha had only put on on her (dominant) left side! And then the dress itself, ooh la la! It clung tightly to every part of her except in the center, where a large diamond pattern had been chest to nearly hip level so that it exposed the underside of her breasts, her belly button, and a flash of frilly pink lace at the band of her low-cut, bikini-style bottom. Of course, it was easy for anybody who wanted to to catch flashes of those any time they wanted, since the skirt of the dress was done in a long loincloth style that trailed all the way down to a centimetre or two above the ground but left the sides of her legs completely exposed. One supposes she was meant to wear greaves or something with it, but all Étoile had to cover her legs was a pair of simple slippers that cut off at her ankles. These at least were easy enough to walk in, but honestly she would kill to teach the Annunaki about the concept of sneakers. It's been a lifetime since running has felt quite right apart from her dalliances as Marianne.

And then there was her pack, which was positively stuffed with things Étoile was sure nobody needed for hunting. Yes, there was the rifle, which was very heavy, and the sidearm (which was also surprisingly heavy), but nobody needed seven tablets outside of their home for any reason at all, much less multiple sketchbooks, much less a full picnic-style lunch and a variety of chilled wines. And why were there multiple changes of clothes? Wasn't this an afternoon trip? And then there were the assorted medicines and treatments, a soft lamp for when it started getting darker, and...

Well, to be frank, it's a lucky thing the Annunaki were so ignorant of the actual capabilities of humans. Because there is simply no way frail little Étoile could carry half of this as smoothly as she did without the aid of her enhanced strength. But nobody in the entire party even bats an eye at her load. In fact, thank goodness they weren't going shopping, or else they'd almost definitely toss an extra twenty kilos of junk into her arms before the trip home.

Étoile bobbles unsteadily as she clears the last step and puts her feet back on French soil for the first time in... merde, how long had it been? Too long. And now it had to be like this. Here was a place that should be bustling with tourists! Happy families! Darling new couples! Long lines crisscrossing this way and that way and another, and their absence made the space feel even more desolate than if they'd been in an actual prairie. Fences were starting to rust, all of the colors looked so faded, and there wasn't a mouse or a princess anywhere in sight.

She mustn't sigh! She mustn't lament or look disappointed! Étoile startles when she hears a chime coming from her wrist, but recovers as-smoothly-as-is-possible while she reaches behind her to try and fish something out of her overstuffed pack. Two somethings, actually, and it's impossible. The rifle needs two hands to hold, the pistol needs a third (would that she were so lucky), and every time she moves to set one down she gets a glare from Jezcha or her friends that makes her think she might not make it home. She winds up tucking the pistol awkwardly under her chin and pinching the rifle on her shoulder, so she can just... barely... come on..!

You may not know that it is possible to pour water into a goblet with a beslippered foot, but then you will not have been a handmaiden to an important Annunaki family before. Étoile fills it effortlessly, humming a tune she'd heard as a child about a girl who dances in the moonlight with a pack of wolves while she works. With one last herculean effort she crams the bottle back in place and stoops for just a moment to pick up Lady Tamytha's favorite goblet.

"Oh gosh, Lady!" she trills and giggles, offering the cup with a tiny curtsy even as she very nearly drops guns every which way, "Please accept this offering of fortified water! Your Étoile is sorry it's so bitter! But it's already past noon, and you need your strength, and she wants to see your eyes shine all day today!"

Breathless Dead

Bella's spin is rigid, all the way down through her tail. Her first several steps are awkward and stiff as the disgusting squelching of this nightmare mud filled hellscape assaults her poor ears. All around her are the sounds of battle being readied, and the oppressive feeling of this dense atmosphere, sweltering and still. She has to fight to keep her eyes in front of her, but her ears bend to every tiny noise whether she wills them to or not. Already there are beads of sweat slicking her neck underneath her collar, and the urge to claw at her chest is overwhelming.

That's before accounting for the raw stench of the place. Her squelching boots turn up a ghastly mix of earth and shit and something worse besides, something raw and rotting that fed the sweltering green of the world inside the leviathan's corpse. It might have been tolerable were it not for the acrid smoke billowing everywhere in the wake of King Jas'o's rampage, or the tang of sweat that seemed soaked into everything (her heart skips a beat when she smells her own mixing into the air. Unacceptable. If Redana noticed, she'd be...), or the crackle of ozone that preceded the release of a thunderbolt, or even just the scent of fresh entrails wafting off of her cruiser from all the gore plastered across it. But there were all these things, and more. The openness of the air had a stench all its own, something she couldn't even put into words. It belonged too deeply to the realm of the gods. All she knew is that this was a place Hades had stolen from Posiedon. This was not a place of raw rage and might and majesty. This is a land of death. A chill crawls up her spine despite the heat.

Bella's eyes sweep the space in front of her. She ignores the bootlicker's troops; as long as they were with their King they may as well not have eyes. Jas'o himself would be the bigger problem, but... ah, there's the Princess' pet sculpture. The snarl catches in Bella's throat, but she swallows it before it pushes her to do anything stupid. Get in, get out, get... ah! Up on that hill, that glint of gold! Princess! Her body flushes with a different sort of heat for a moment. She could swear she could even pick up the Princess' scent from across all that distance and over all these other smells. That was the strength of their bond, wasn't it? Redana wore such a particular scent, unique in all the galaxy. The barest touch of laser mixed with...

No. Wait. Bella's nose wrinkles, and she turns her gaze closer to her immediate surroundings. She extra sniff is involuntary. She retches immediately. That's raw laser, slathered on so obscenely thick it's actually overpowering everything. Disgusting. She knew she was bound to meet backwater savages on this trip, but she never for a second imagined that... ugh. A lion and a... sheep? Dressed up like a clown's idea of mercenaries. Which breeder was responsible for this travesty? Their pedigree couldn't possibly match the cat who served her venison today. Comparing them to Bella wasn't even worth the...

Her brow furrows. Her jaw falls slack for a single stunned moment. The lion is pointing some kind of ridiculous facsimile of a sword at her. And taunting her. Her!

Bella sneers. Her fingers stretch and then curl, brandishing her claws. Her tail flicks aggressively from side to side. This is all the warning she offers.

And then all of a sudden she lunges forward in a smooth rush, hunching low to the ground as she dashes at her prey. She's there in two steps. Worthless fool. Worthless toy. Are you the one? Are you supposed to be a replacement? That stance is less than useless; this is not a duel. Bella explodes upward with a thrust of her powerful legs and grabs Vasilia by the face with her bare hand. The momentum lifts her off her feet entirely, and in another blur of motion, Bella slams her into the disgusting muck. She's probably used to it anyway.

Bella steps forward and spins on the ball of her foot with the poise of one of the ballerinas who put on shows for Redana back on Tellus. Somewhere in the rush of action, she's gotten her hands on that stupid sword, which she whirls and presses against Dolce's throat. It's a moment frozen in time. Bella's deep, golden eyes are alight with the promise of death as she watches to see whether he'll parry, or bleat. But then... he waits. Eyes on her bells, eyes on Vasilia. Bella pulls back and lifts the blade in front of her face, examining it with curiosity etched onto her face.

"I didn't figure they'd make anything worthwhile outside of the capitol, but this is..."

She smiles coldly, and drags her claws against the metal. The blade keens horribly, almost as if it was screaming out in pain until she snaps her hand shut and it falls to the ground in several pieces. She scoffs.

"Well. I'm sure I'd love to stay and chat, but unlucky me I've got a princess to go rescue. So stay down and let me work. Got it? Good. Don't make me have to get nasty."

She spits on the ground, mouth full of the unholy miasma of this place, and starts toward the hill with contempt and a chiming of bells.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

When she was younger, back before the world exploded, Étoile used to hate the Eiffel Tower. It wasn't the thing itself so much (though it was ugly enough, for sure), but everything it brought with it. In particular, the tourists. Ugh, Americans. You could always tell, even when they weren't walking around with their flag on their asses. They gave themselves away with their gawking and the absurdly loud voices they used to talk to each other about everything. Many of them would have their hands clenched around pockets or purses as though this would protect them from the pickpockets they'd read about on tourist websites.

And the sunglasses, too! Why did they always wear sunglasses? Even when they would wave Étoile over to them and ask (in even louder voices, like that somehow made English easier to understand) for her to take their picture, they wouldn't take them off! What kind of photo didn't show your eyes in your moment of happiness? And then of course they'd hand her a camera or a phone, but as soon as she tried to stand on a bench or climb a tree to give them a memory from an interesting angle, they'd call her a thief and threaten to call the police on her. None of them wanted to know what she was trying to do, none of them cared that this was her talent, they all wanted the same stupid straight-on shot with them folding their arms across their chest and forced smiles on their faces, or arms crushing their children into their bodies, always from either much too close or much too far away for the picture to turn out well...

Glimpsing it now, she has to suppress the urge to sigh. Oh, how she missed Paris. Her Paris. Even the stupid parts of it that drove her insane. But it was dangerous for any slave to express even momentary discontent with their lot in life anywhere anyone could hear them, especially for a privileged handmaiden like Étoile. She wouldn't dare take the risk had it been just herself and Lady Tamytha, but with Jezcha watching, of all the people who might be? It was the most vital thing in the world for her to project absolute elation at all times.

God, what she wouldn't give to make this little brat Marianne's next target. But it couldn't be done, of course. Or, well, it could, but it was exactly the sort of misty daydream Marianne had roasted Set for. She'd put the Seneschal on high alert, possibly for the rest of her life, and for what? Revenge? Revenge would come. Being a spy meant having patience, even with terrible bullies who can't stop hurting people for even five seconds.

Étoile looks over at her Lady and feels her heart swell up with sadness. But under her soft teal and pink veil, she offers a simple smile: warm and non-threatening as she knows how to be. She leans and rests her head against Tamytha's shoulder. Look at her, Jezcha! Isn't she such a good girl?

"My Lady is so modest!" she chirps, "Every day when I wake up I'm amazed all over again by her grace and compassion, and even still she finds it in herself to downplay her gifts so effortlessly! Oh gosh, my heart is going pitter patter, yes it is! Don't worry, Lady! Even if your heart is too filled with love for you to hunt today, your Étoile will make sure you come home happy!"

Deep inside her heart, Marianne stirs just enough to roll her eyes. But she's listening more attentively now. You're a weak, pathetic suck up, little star, but this kind of boldness is good for you, yes!

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Moments like these are more dangerous to the Revolution than a thousand guard patrols. If the ab-Enkiji spent a month at work on a new marvel designed specifically to de-fang Marianne, whatever they came up with, they would still accomplish less than the sight that greets Étoile right now.

The reaction is instant. In a flash, all thoughts of how she might exact revenge on her Janissary escorts are forgotten. The pain pulsing across her back fades to a dull background hum. Her back and shoulders straighten without conscious effort. Her legs find the strength to pretend they can carry her right now. And Marianne, with one last disdainful sniff, releases her hold on Étoile's heart and sinks deep beneath the surface to await the next night she's needed more than this absurd little star.

It's just Étoile now. And someone's gone and turned her mouth into a desert while she was away. She doesn't answer, except to try swallowing. It takes her several attempts to get any kind of saliva flowing again. And all she does is stand there with one foot frozen in mid step and an arm tentatively reaching out as if it could clear the space between one end of the room and the other in a single gesture. She is bounding across the room and drawing backwards to flee it at the same time, and the result is that she's frozen completely in place.

Her world is the sound of Tamytha's effort filled breathing which is somehow barely audible and yet drowns out Caphtor's music at the same time. It is the sight of the sweat beading on her forehead in the pale moonlight as if she'd been caught in the rain, as though that were a thing the Annunaki allowed to happen under any circumstances. It is the feeling of pain, until it is swallowed whole by another feeling which is called guilt. She swallows again; she's getting better at it as she goes.

Her foot decides to carry her forward after all. Étoile pads softly, deeper into the room. She makes less noise than a ghost as she bounds more than steps, and then prances more than bounds closer to her Lady. Then she freezes again, a fresh statue in the middle of the room. Her hair bobs this way and that as her head darts around the room looking for something, looking for... yes, that will do.

She trots daintily away again. Just for a moment. Just to scoop up a discarded shawl that found the floor when the evening became too hot to tolerate it. She drapes it over her shoulders, though not quite correctly. It's lopsided the way she's wearing it, so that instead of giving her an air of added modesty and decorum she looks more like a silly animal that couldn't figure out how the pretty fabric worked. Lady called for her lamassie, after all. And this way all her bloody marks are covered. They never happened. Do not let your heart tremble at the thought, Lady.

Étoile hops lightly from tile to tile as though she were on an obstacle course and needed to consider each leap to a new platform carefully lest she fall in some sort of hazard pit. Then she reaches the bed and dips gracefully (and gratefully) onto her knees. Her hands tremble as she takes one of Tamytha's in them and touches it to her cheek. And if this were a kinder world, she would cry now. But there are too many masks that need wearing, and the reaction passes by her face to settle inside her chest instead.

"It's me, Milady. Lamassie is really here, she promises. She is so sorry for losing your pretty jacket. She is so sorry for losing your pretty veil. She is so sorry she made you worry all night when you needed her more than ever. Lamassie is a bad girl, but she is here now. She promises."