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Oh no! Oh no oh no, oh no! Oh cruel, uncaring Universe, did you not understand the one thing Étoile had asked for? She said no Lynxes! None! This is two! Two Lynxes! And these two Lynxes, to boot! Oh no oh no oh no no no no, she'd never live this down. By this time tomorrow the entire House of Marduk will have heard every unflattering detail of this trip. Oh goshies, why had she gone and forgotten her triangles? Er, her ears. H-headdress!

Étoile's entire body is flushed and red. If she didn't know better she'd swear she was coming down with a fever. What is she supposed to do? Listen to them snicker! She tries to hide her face, but the only place to do that is on Lady's thigh and for some reason that mostly seems to be making things worse? Oh lamassie you silly girl! Stop squeaking! Can't you hear how much they're laughing? Can't you hear how much you sound like you're mewing?? Ok no, this is not going to work. This was, in fact, a terrible idea and she needs to apologize to Lady right now and take it back before--

The thought, in fact every thought, is interrupted by a series of gentle scritches massaging her scalp right behind her triangles. N-nevermind that they're just something a servant put on her head, the sensation of those long, strong fingers gliding across her scalp is... is... mmmmm~

lamassie's deepest secret is that she never quite mastered purring. The noise she makes instead is an indecent sort of half-moan broken up by little shivers and a vague crackling to her voice that gives her voice a kind of gravelly sing-song quality. It means she's happy. It means she's safe with her Lady and not even mean, snickering Lynxes can penetrate the absolute zone of perfect defense that is ear wubs. She bonks her forehead against Lady's legs and nuzzles her cheek against her mistress with a sudden and total lack of shame. Before she knows it her butt is wiggling in the air and her guards are no longer even trying to restrain their laughter, but it doesn't matter. Étoile, lamassie has no need for pride! She's a good girl, yes she is!

Lady tugs her leash, and Étoile paps her little paws onto the ground to follow where she's led. Of course she can't stand up on her feet, silly! Then she wouldn't be Lady's darling widd... erm, little lamassie! She turns her head up as high as her collar will let her to present her chin for rubs even underneath her veil. It's the prettiest one she owns, sparkling golden fabric that's lined with tiny jewels that add weight to the soft fabric that's even thin enough to offer the tiniest glimpse at her face! Wearing this she's an open book: Lady doesn't even need to look at her eyes to see how happy she is!

The face that looks back at her is pure magic. This is the strongest Tamytha has looked in days! Looking at her tall, wiry frame and seeing all the gentleness she knows is reflected inside the depths of her soul, lamassie feels the last bits of her doubt melt into a puddle. Lady's tread is feather soft, and lamassie comes scampering delightedly behind her. To the gardens! To the gardens for Lady's pretty heart! She makes all sorts of silly noises and delights to hear the laughter that follows, but even at her silliest she never comes close to the end of her leash. If it's her time to be a pet, she is the gentlest, sweetest pet in all of Caphtor.

And do you know why? Because she's a good girl. And she's going to fix everything, just you watch!
This is truly excellent wine. Even as warm as it is, every tiny sip cascades like a river of flavors across her tongue and disappears down her throat as gentle as a spring rain. It is rich, intoxicating, and decadent in a way servitor wine could never be by way of its very design: the taste of grape is heady and strong, but underneath it instead of the watery oiliness she's used to there's a bouquet of new flavors dancing through her mouth.

There are notes of smoke and an earthy kind of bite that takes her some moments to place before she realizes with a widening of her eyes that the drink had been stored and aged in a wooden cask. She lacks the vocabulary to even guess what sort, but she's certain, yes she is. And underneath even this wonderful prize is a thin line of persimmon and even cinnamon. It's a rich treasury of seemingly infinite delights that forces her to take the delicate and refined sips of an Empress lest the sensation of the wine itself leave her drunk, a far cry from the way her own stock so warmly encourages guzzling and (merriment thereafter).

Bella swirls the glass in between her fingers with a curious smirk etched across her face. She's never had cause to savor drink before. Never had a reason to use her fingers like this. There is power in this motion, she feels it purring in her chest. And yet for all of the wonder of the drink being so thoughtlessly poured for her benefit, she can tell at a sniff that the extreme age of the stuff has diminished it greatly. There's a mustiness to the smell and a thinness to the flavor that only becomes more noticeable the longer her tongue has to adjust to it, and every now and then a note so sour it threatens to drag her breakfast back up her throat.

She drinks on. Her wine, her precious gift and refuge, is the power and ingenuity of an entire Empire, or more accurately an Empress bent toward the sole design of lifting the crowded masses closer to the light. The stuff in her hand is the work of another Empire toward brandishing a light so high above the crowd and so bright that even daring to reach for it would blind all but the gods themselves and send the thief tumbling, broken, to the depths of Tartarus to suffer for their hubris. This is a drink for kings, and even then it's a pale imitation of Her Imperial Highness' own stock, which was so strong that when she was a kitten just the smell of important people drinking it from across the room was enough to make Bella's toes curl. Once, she'd had to carry a pair of glasses for the Empress and the Princess, and the fumes had been so overwhelming she'd had to excuse herself from the ball immediately thereafter so she could find a closet to faint in.

If she dared to lap at that ambrosia, she would surely be tortured for all eternity. Cut apart and sewn together again in a cycle with no end. But this in her hand was the shadow of that folly. This, surely, was allowed to a Praetor. She sips the wine again and holds it in her mouth just long enough to feel the dryness start to settle in, then swallows thoughtfully. She chuckles.

"What an idiot. Look at her, do you see? She hasn't been letting them take care of her properly. They probably don't know how, those dipshits. Ha, just look at her dance!"

Bella's eyes gleam with delight. She grins toothily as her legs cross together, and lowers her glass to rest near the Imperial Box as she lifts her other hand up to rest her cheek on its curled wrist. Her tail swishes with the primal delight of a predator spotting the flash of a wing inside a bush.

"I don't care what happens to Alexa, but the Princess is my concern. Nobody lays a hand on her but me, you got that? But this is fine. Continue dancing or... whatever. This is fine, let them come to us. I've waited this long, I don't mind waiting just a little bit longer."

She squeezes the stem of her wine glass. Where her claws find the surface, it starts to crack.
Bella can't help but sniff the air for signs of Mynx, but there's no new information for her to find. Between the sharpness of the wind and the mechanized stench of the planet itself, there's so much information in every breath that the shapeshifter probably doesn't even need to work to disguise her scent the way she has to on a ship.

She clicks her tongue, and the frown is pushed off her face before it can fully take shape by the electric tingle still crawling up and down her spine. For once, the present calls more powerfully than the past. Her tail flicks with pleasure as she eyes the blue carpeted pathway, and when her nose draws in her next breath she takes nothing more from it than the oxygen. She rolls her shoulders all the way back and pushes her chest forward with unconcealed pride.

This place does not recall Tellus. It could never hope to measure up to the true height of Imperial power. Just look at all the crumbling stonework, the halfassed attempts at rebuilding monuments so many times that now they looked childish instead of regal. Look at how poor the lighting is as the stairs lead down and the hallway stretches into the murk so deep that her eyes will have to strain to pierce it. This is rot and decay and folly, the swept-aside remains of the lesser empire of a lesser emperor. And yet. And yet.

And yet! Bella licks her lips hungrily. Her eyes flutter shut in a rare moment of contentment laced in with her anticipation. She offers the lead machine, broken little doll that it is, a nod of respect before she takes first confident steps forward. Every little motion of her body radiates power in this place, as if she could hear the music these insane, decrepit puppets were slaves to and had swallowed it like a leviathan. As if she had found the strings that pulled them to and fro and understood the beauty that came from choosing not to cut them loose.

Her grin is sharper than a hoplite's spear. She raises one hand above her shoulder and snaps twice: marching orders for her soldiers. She'd made every right decision in the weeks leading up to this moment, and now the gods were rewarding her. Here was power. Here was her path. Here were her guardians, her respect, her honor. At the end of this dance would lie the secrets of Baradissar, and those secrets in turn would bring her home. The thought of Nero's smile waiting for her lifts her feet into the air. The thought of that smile, even more beautiful as it's mirrored on the face of Redana, pulls her legs forward. It pulls the soft hums of a marching song to her lips, a sweet and silly thing that always meant grand adventures in the grandest palace in the universe, to accompany her first elated steps down the path the machines had opened for her.

The Regalia vibrates atop her head as it reflects her song back at her. Each footfall on the velvet road is soft and comfortable; she could walk this for a week and never once get tired of it.
Étoile heaves a sigh as she stares at herself in the mirror. Her golden veil is a perfect match for her sparkling, taut bikini. She's painted her eyes a flawless turquoise and set gems across her nose just so, and the dark whisker lines she's drawn on her cheeks are exactly according to the picture she was given to work with. She runs the brush through her high ponytail and it glides through the strands as if through water. Everything is perfect. And yet...

She pivots on the balls of her feet to check behind her. The luscious black-furred tail Lady gave her oh those... actually, better not to count how long it's been, what's important is that it's inserted as securely and comfortably as she could ask for, and pokes through the special hole sewn into her bottoms just adorably. Her shimmery pastel wings are laced into her top so well she could trick herself into thinking she was born with them if they didn't have such a silly and obvious costume-y flop to them. Her legs are covered by alluring black thigh-high socks that have her feeling warm despite the cooler air and her skimpy outfit.

She sighs again and casts her gaze her gaze down at her feet. It's no good. There's no way this will work, and it's all her fault. For getting distracted, and for putting too much faith in Marianne to protect what was important instead of... of... no. No. She could fix this. She had to fix this. There's nobody else in all the world who would even try. Just a few more important details, Étoile, there's a good girl. This has to work. Please, let it work.

She pulls the first glove tightly over her arm up to the elbow. It's designed to force her hand into a ball to complete the look of the ridiculous and embarrassing cat's paw at the end. It also needs to be laced up, and even though she still has a hand free she takes the time to pull the strings tight and then tie them with a simple knot using her teeth. She's more used to it this way for one thing, but more importantly she knows that giving in will only make the second one more difficult. It's an uncomfortable twenty minutes of effort, but when she's finished she's rendered her hands so completely useless that she has to bend down and pick up her leash and collar with her mouth.

This is it, Étoi-- no. lamassie. Go save your Lady. And, just... please, for the love of everything good left in the world, please don't assign any Lynxes to watch them today. Anybody else is fine, just please. Please. There's no way they're ok with this. Right?

She smacks her cheeks with her paws and forces her face into a silly, servile smile. There she is! There's lamassie! She nods at her reflection once, twice, and goes trot trot trotting off into the bedroom where she can hear her Lady being devoured by that nasty monster named Anxiety.

Prance prance prance! She swings her hips with exaggerated enthusiasm to make her little tail go swish-swish and her wings flutter daintily. She skips forward with a sort of courage flowing through her body that even Marianne would struggle to find, and paps her silly paws down in Lady's lap.

"Pweash, misshtwshh," she chirps just before spitting the collar out. She turns her face toward Tamytha with the best doe-eyed expression she can muster, "I, u-um... l-lamassie reeeaaaally wants to go for walkies! Can we go? Can Lady take her silly pet to the gardens, please pretty please please?"

She squirms and blushes hot enough to feel near enough a match for Tamytha's own body temperature. Her veil flutters on her face as she nuzzles Lady's lap. Just as nice as burying your face in fresh laundry. Right?
Bella's heart pounds in her chest with such furious elation it feels like she might die. Her insides are filling up with lightning and the hot fury of Poseidon's solar winds; all the rush of drinking and her fever dreams that followed but without her mind following after and tumbling down into terror. Her tail curls, and the spark sends shivers down her spine.

Her eyes go wide. Her breath catches in a strange sort of half-laugh; it pulls her lips up until they're quivering, it bares her fangs in the full glory of their sharpness and wickedness, it sets her eyes afire with a horrible blaze of lust. The shadow that crawls over her face transforms her from a servant to a queen, and from a queen into a monster before it seeps down inside of her and curls up around the warmth of her hammering heart. This is power. This is what means. This what it's like to hold it.

It takes all of her concentration and focus to swallow her delirious giggles before they swim up out of her and ruin her life forever. She takes a deep breath and allows herself another shiver of pleasure before she raises her hand to cut Lorventi off.

"No," she purrs, "Not just yet. I want to see how many screws these things still have in right. They're broken as shit, obviously, but that doesn't make them useless. They must have been waiting for so long! Poor, stupid things: you still know this planet's secrets, don't you? Go on, tell me. Show me."

She smiles encouragingly at the prostrating machines, the way she remembers the Empress doing sometimes. Those were the moments where the resemblance between Her Majesty and Redana was the most intense. So warm and comforting, so eager to see her succeed. But the Empress could flash her smile whenever she wished it: she'd even done it after watching Bella's final flogging, in the moment just after making her a Praetor. And it had still worked. That, too, was power. Bella's expression darkens as she turns to Lorventi.

"Don't wear your arm out, Captain. Even if these creepy little dolls don't need to be scrapped, there's a Ceronian mutt and an even bigger bitch pretending she's your equal just waiting to taste your talents today. You'll have your fill of glory, so show me more patience. Aren't your kind all about that?"
Étoile is trembling. There is so little of Marianne's fire left in her, and what's there feels like it's only there to burn her hollow. Chains melt off of her coat as she clings to Canada. Her mask cracks and her gloves crumble to dust on her hands; her disguise is falling apart even faster than her plans.

But even still, she doesn't let go. She's got sniffles instead of comforting words, but she doesn't let go. She's got a ratty hood and a tangled and matted nest of golden blond hair to keep herself hidden under, nothing more than that to see herself home tonight, but she doesn't let go or run while she's still got the chance.

Go on, Étoile. You have to fix this. You have to advance the plan and the cause, or what was it all for? You have to do more than just feel the warmth of another human body on your own. Do more than notice where your hero feels as firm and strong as steel and where she's so soft it makes it seem impossible she could handle anything so rough as a pillow fight. So go on. Make it better.

"...Dumbass." she winces, and pulls away so she can turn to hide her face.

"If, if that's what... if that's what, that's what you really think, then..." It should be impossible for a place so full of horrible and noisy devices to feel so oppressively quiet. But the space between her words is worse than drowning, "Th-then you're dead, ok?! You're dead and I killed you! So just... just stop for a while and, and... wait for the signal. You really, you... you don't get it, do you? What you mean t-to people and... who cares and, and!"

When she wrenches herself free, her every motion is jarring and ungraceful. She moves like she took every hit that happened in the arena, no matter who threw it. She throws an arm in front of her face to keep it covered, though it does nothing at all to hide how upset she is. She has to stomp her foot three times to get it to slide in between the corners, and only at the last second remembers to reach out her hand to pull Canada with her to some softer and more hospitable place to be "dead".
This is not a place of glory.

At this great height, the air is frigid enough to be a match for the terrifying maw of space. Only, the way the wind whips through the paper thin atmosphere makes it seem a dozen times worse than a jaunt between shuttles could ever hope to be. It plunges the chill deep into her skin as though it were carried on spear tips, and the way it tears at her dress and threatens to pull apart her delicate hairstyle, it might as well be. It stings her eyes and her palms especially, shifting and changing so constantly that it's difficult to ever properly adapt to it. Sometimes a gust catches her off guard and threatens to pull her foot forward or back. She grinds her teeth together and twists her heels into the ground; she mustn't look weak compared to her Kaeri.

Every other breath forces an involuntary swallow, or near enough, to remove the sensation of the thin film building on her tongue. It tastes as bad as it smells. The Anemoi had been so sterile and muted she'd been allowed to forget for a while, but these... foreign environments really did blanket themselves in their own brands of unholy stench, didn't they? The World Eater had been a sickening, sweltering ode to death and rot, but even that might be preferable to this symphony of rust and gunpowder and oil. It sticks in her nose, along with the pungent tang of leaking hydraulic fluids, and no amount of sniffing can dislodge it. This is the smell of the worst nights of her childhood, when her failure got her secreted away from her Princess' chambers to service ships and plovers while her back stung and bled, only to be roughly shunted back just in time to greet Redana with breakfast and a carefully trained smile that said nothing had come in the night but pleasant dreams. She can hear the angry shouts of her handlers in this smell. She can feel the pain of the rod in this smell. The sooner she can be gone, the better.

This is not a place of glory. The astonishing depth of the horizon stretches on and on into forever, and every last speck of it whispers of pain and ruin. Here, a mountain cracked in half and left to bleed out like a fallen titan. There, an ocean turned blacker than Tartarus with the scars of an unwinnable battle. And just beyond that, there's nothing but crumbling ruins and haunted monuments to the folly of daring even for a moment to stand against the will of Her Imperial Majesty. And all of this before she screws her courage up enough to flick her eyes skyward again and risk the moaning wrath of The Spear. There is one Empress. One. Through history there has been one body, one mind worthy of sitting upon the throne of humanity, and it belongs to Nero IV Acontecimento Azurius. Stupidity to think otherwise. Suicide.

Bella watches the machine shamble toward her position with a strange expression etched across her face. They come, more and more every moment, like a slow and hobbling wave made out of junk. They come promising war, but the Praetor does nothing other than tilt her head to one side and crack her tail behind her like a whip as her soldiers fan out in response. Her hand clenches into a fist and she revels in the feeling of her claws and her talons biting into her palm. Her eyes seem to spark, and her lip curls up in a very toothy sneer.

"Save yourself for the real hunt, Captain. These ghosts aren't worthy of your talents."

She steps forward with a sway in her hips that draws even the most disciplined eyes toward her. Only her. Her heels click sharply with every step across the palace courtyard. She radiates strength as she crosses the defensive line set up in front of her. It's easy for even those sharp-eyed owls to mistake the shaking of her arms for the dramatic fluttering of her fancy sleeves. For someone used to the posturing of battle it doesn't even occur to mark the sharp stomp of her heels as evidence of how much thought is going into each individual step to keep her moving forward, as opposed to the forceful drumbeats of war. She flexes her claws, but her posture is rigid. She closes her eyes, and touches her laurel crown. She is a good girl. She is on the side of justice.

Her eyes snap open to the sound of a series of sharp clicks as the imperial regalia floating imperceptibly above her head twists and unfolds itself from an elegant golden wreath to a wicked thing of sharp edges and gleaming blades. Everywhere a leaf unfurls into a blade, it reveals a tiny rose-like ruby gleaming with the confidence of a ruler who has not known true defeat or disobedience in almost two hundred years. Bella lights up like a beacon, and the somber colors of her servitude give way at last to the bold and powerful red and gold of true imperial authority. Her eyes shine with terrible delight in the rush. Her voice, when she speaks, echoes down into the depths with a haughty and full-throated timbre:

"Kneel!"
The first punch is like a rock smashing across Canada's face. Marianne forces her way up to sitting and raises her fist again in anger. Her eyes sting with hot, steaming tears.

"You idiot! You stupid... idiot! Who told you you could try this? Did you even think about what would happen if you lost? Or even worse, if you'd won? Idiot! Quelle conasse! You... you're such a..."

The second blow falls, but it hits as hard as a kitten's paw. Her voice cracks with the effort of holding back her tears, which as boiling away her shadows. Her body doesn't change at all, but without them she seems... diminished. The general murk of the Undercity still hides most of her distinguishing details, but without her aura, with no burning eyes or wicked teeth or that easy sense of power that follows her everywhere, Marianne is not a monster. She's not a warrior, and not a revolutionary. She looks fragile, tired, and weak. She's not a hero.

She's just a girl. And she's lost the battle with her tears. She sobs openly and without restraint, helpless to stop the rain of tears from dripping out through her mask and splashing against Canada's skin and armor. It's a constant storm of blows, harder than her punches could even hope to be right now. Twice she almost seems to get a handle on herself, but as soon as she opens her mouth to speak again it breaks and she doubles over in a fresh wave of crying. She sinks lower and lower, until she's back in Canada's arms, clinging to her and hiding her face in the nape of her neck, stealing comfort from her own victim like the worst sort of villain.

"I-it's... not, not ok! It's not ok, you dummy!" Is this her real voice? It's so soft! She sniffs, "How am, how am... h-ho-how am I supposed to keep you safe? How am I supposed to keep you safe when you're trying to throw yourself away?! I need you! I can't do this without you! I can't do... anything without you..."
The screen wobbles as it flickers to life. At first the image is nothing but a bright off-white smudge, until it gradually starts fading into a blurry and indistinct grayscale picture of a very dark room. Slowly, details start to pop out: a bed with neatly pressed sheets and an immaculate and warm looking blanket folded into a perfect rectangle at the foot. The side of an ornate, whitish tin sitting on top of the blanket. The dark and spotless floor, and in the very bottom right corner of the frame, the sharp pointed heel of a shoe. The screen stutters, and the shoe disappears.

It must be a very old model to be having this much trouble. It must have known a lot of use to be running this quietly. Even by the oppressive standards of the Anemoi, the image is stifling, still, and silent. The shot sits perfectly still, without stimulus of any kind, when suddenly after a minute the sound of a mechanical clicking comes over what may as well have been a photograph. And then, just behind it, the soft flutter flutter of film feeding through a processor slot. It must be a very special model to remember what colors are after so many years of quietly waiting to be wanted again.

The room itself is no less black for all the triumph of the camera. But the bedsheets are vibrant ocean blue, and the blanket the deepest emerald green. The tin, it turns out, is platinum and covered with gold trim in pattern of crawling vines and roses. The lighting in the room is soft but sufficient, the kind of soothing yellow that begs a body to curl up underneath it with a story or to nap as though it were a sunbeam in a perfect garden, full of--

A single golden cat's eye suddenly fills the entire frame. The pupil grows wide as it flits from side to side, hunting, searching, puzzling. And then with equally little fanfare it retreats, and the cat it's attached to furrows her brow in concentration. The frown covering her face conveys nothing of hatred or aggression, but only a quiet kind of focus. She could easily be fighting a particularly stubborn stain right now, or building herself up to lecturing Redana about her bad habits.

"...Is it? Aha!"

Her delight ripples through the room in waves of bright laughter as beautiful as song. The smile it brings to her face transforms her, taking away years of stress and trauma and transforming her from a Praetor to a Best Friend. This is the height of her beauty: her lips painted cherry red and her cheeks stretched wide with mirth. Her teeth are dazzling, and for once their sharpness is cute instead of predatory. Her golden eyes are sparkling as she finally steps back and fully into the frame.

"In the old stories, the great heroes would create records before attempting difficult tasks and challenges. I thought, since my own adventure is about to come to an end I'd maybe try my hand at it. But I didn't what to talk about, so I..."

Bella glances off frame at the door several times before continuing, suddenly looking very nervous. She takes a deep breath before suddenly breaking into a twirl that lifts her skirts in a wide circle of giddy pleasure. Her outfit is simple, pure black and white, and very deeply frilly. Her skirts are layered waves of lacy black fabric lined at each new descending line with white trim. When they settle, they come to rest just below her knees, covering up the little ribbons tied at the tops of her socks, which are every bit as snowy white as the fur they're covering.

She poses by lifting her arms to either side and point out her left leg to show off her shining black lacquered dancing shoes and their 3 inch heels that lift her calves into the most perfect and enticing shape they're capable of. As she gestures with her arms, the wide and open white lace of her sleeves flutters and dances around her hands like falling leaves caught in a swirling breeze. They wind and wrap three full times around her wrists and cover her smooth black sleeves before her dancing pulls them open again. They hang long enough on her wrists to reach the middle of her skirts when she finally brings her hands to rest at her stomach.

When her back arches, it pushes her chest forward enough to strain the oversized black buttons on her blouse, but only just enough to show off the ruffles layered atop the otherwise smooth and patternless design. She is elegant. She is prim, she is proper. If she had her paw print patterned apron with her she would be ready for almost a normal day of working in the palace, albeit perhaps on a particularly festive occasion. She turns to show her back and the many gold laces tying her shirt together, as well as her dazzling and intricate braid. She must have spent hours on it: more than thirty plaits wind their way down her neck and the top of her back in a fishtail pattern complex enough that even a weaver would hesitate before trying to replicate it in their work. Even with its broken chain, her collar manages to look stately and impressive underneath it.

Bella turns and smiles for the camera again before disappearing out of frame for a moment with a series of loud-clicking steps. She comes back with something clasped gingerly in her hands, which she hides from the camera with her sleeves. She hesitates for a long moment, twice lifting her arms up toward her head before bringing them down again before she finally makes the decision and places the ornament where it belongs. The sheen of the golden laurel wreath is almost blinding, even in the low and comfy lighting of her bedroom, as it rests upon her hair like a crown. She tilts her head this way and that, showing how by its own power it stays where it should without ever actually quite touching her. Imperial Regalia... at last a reminder of her station. Of the full degree of trust the Empress has placed in her.

"So!" she chirps, "What do you think? The Princess will love it! Right? She will, won't she? There's no way she won't, I picked it out especially for her!"

Giddy bouncing flutters her sleeves and skirts and bounces her hair, though every piece falls perfectly into place again without a hint of disarray. Her fingers are as clever as they've ever been, apparently. She laughs again, and it's as wonderful as music.

"I really wasn't sure at first, but Mynx said I needed to remind her who I am and... she was right! It's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Oh, I never knew how much fun it was having my own wardrobe! When I get home I should ask the Empress if... oh! I can't believe it! This is finally over! I'm going home! I'll make her understand and she'll come on board my ship, and then... that's it! Just one last trip and we won't have to deal with all this space and danger ever again! I could sing, honestly! I guess I'll have to, actually."

Bella heaves a playful little sigh and sits like a proper lady on the bed. She opens up the tin and tilts it to show the camera: it's full of all sorts of sweets, all classic favorites of Redana. There's candied rose petals and crystallized honey of course, but the star of the show are the variety of colored and snow-covered cubes that are the Princess' absolute favorite: Ilium Delight! Bella reaches in for one, but hesitates before she touches it, and grabs a petal instead. It crunches between her teeth and she squeezes her eyes shut while her ears flutter in absolute delight.

"The Anemoi is no fit place for a princess, but I'm ready for the challenge! I've got her favorite foods and a bunch of her old holos here with me, so I'll just... oh, what's it matter? She's going to love it here! We'll be together, Dany! Aren't you excited? We're going home!"
Bella clicks her tongue, but says nothing. Her ears give a little wiggle toward Mynx, but her eyes are drawn only to the map. Her fingers hover for a moment over the Fleet Security seal for a moment, which draws a scowl onto her and nearly sends her back into the comfort of the blankets and the embrace that means she has a friend. But she stays strong. She presses her thumb down on the frigid surface of the table, feeling the glass-slick smoothness give way to corrugated ridges as she caresses the second, unknown seal and her expression passes from fury to wonder. And, beneath that, hunger.

"It doesn't matter." she whispers.

Her fingers slide across the map, careful to avoid digging her claws into the precious resources the Empress had seen fit to bless her with. She leans across the table until it's the whole of her world, pushing even Mynx outside of her universe so she can drink in every detail. Her eyes gleam in the dim light of the room as the dart up and down the map. The muscles in her back pull taut with the effort of holding her up, turning her from a creature of softness to a beast of iron. Her tail flicks back and forth with pleasure at the feeling.

"That's such a stupid question, Mynx. Do you think Ares would care if I said I favored him? Do you think he'd be swayed by my plans? Would Athena give a single fuck if I laid out some grand formation in front of you right now? Of course she wouldn't! There's only one god who's ever listened to my prayers, and she has no place on a battlefield. Even if that wasn't true, we'll never hold Athena's favor for as long as Redana has that statue with her, and she'll accidentally please Ares while she runs around more than we could if we spent a month trying."

Bella smiles sardonically for a moment, just before she pounces across the table and pins Mynx to the ground. Her hands slide everywhere, grabbing and possessive, lingering especially under the chin just above the throat. Here it would be easy to pull the shapeshifter into the kind of kiss that would write songs by itself just to hear them sung. Here it would be easy to strangle the life from her and retire to sip wine above the corpse until someone came by to clean it up. Instead, she wraps herself possessively around her companion and squeezes her tight. Her breath is a wave of steam in Mynx's ear.

"What would the Princess do in this situation, hm?" she purrs, "Would she even have an answer? I'll get her alone, and we won't be in Ares or Athena's domain anymore. I don't need your little assassin friends for this. The owls are enough to hunt some mice. We'll trap the lot of them in a pretty, honorable little skirmish and then..."

Her hand brushes against Mynx's collarbone with a strength that almost manages to hide how badly she's shaking.

"I... we'll make her remember. Won't we?"
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