The Annunaki are, if nothing else, extremely solid. It's a trick of their physiology or something; their muscles and their bone structure are both very dense. It makes them tougher than their decadence would otherwise imply. It's at least some of why they think of themselves as so invincible. More to the point, it means it hurts a lot to punch one. 

Marianne's sharp backhand across Jerioth's cheek sounds like a hammer hitting a cinder block and cracking it in half. Her grin, impossibly, grows wider when she sees the neck twist in surprise. She grabs a great handful of silk and jewelry gathered around Jerioth's chest to keep the sudden change in balance from toppling the useless cretin over (with all that hair, she'd never get her facing the right way again). She squeezes her other hand into a fist to hide how numb it is. 

"[i]That[/i] is how you command silence, tyrant dog. You were told to dance, and so you shall. There is no need for you to move your lips."

A phantom thief must dazzle. A phantom thief must seem capable of anything, at any time. And most importantly of all, a phantom thief must be [i]cool[/i]. Tonight will ripple far beyond the job itself. They must talk. They must whisper at each other, look over their shoulders at every darkened corner and wonder, and in their dreams for weeks to come see the face of the revolution and the republic, whose name is the name of the people. 

The eye on Marianne's forehead opens wide, burning like a tiny star. She stares openly at the heart of Jerioth ab-Ishtar, and judges her prey without words. Disgusting. But she must be motivated for what comes next.

Marianne jabs her hand down toward the ground, a useless gesture with no meaning other than misdirection. But beneath Jerioth, the ground is warping. Chains snake through the hidden paths, encircling their target unseen before they burst forth all at once like a furious hydra. She binds the neck with thick links like a collar, complete with leash. She wraps each wrist in turn and ties them both together with a short band that will allow for little more than vague wiggling or shuffling along on the hands and knees, which she repeats around the conceited brat's bronzed ankles. More and more and more, squeezing the thighs and binding the chest and encircling the waist. Marianne's fingers contract in another exaggerated command gesture and all at once the chains pull taut and pull Jerioth down onto her belly. 

There is a gleeful sound of slashing, tearing fabric. Marianne's eyes are alight as she bends down and lets her mask chains dangle in her prisoner's face. She holds up several strips of what was once a gorgeous and perfect festival dress and waits with saintly patience for the inevitable scream. Her fingers fly down to snatch at that weak chin and hold Jerioth's fat and stupid lips held open.

"For such superior beings, you do not seem to have very good schools for yourselves. These were very simple instructions, yes. And even then, you failed to follow, yes! So now, lucky you! Marianne will teach you your missing lessons, yes yes!"

She shoves a square of torn fabric into Jerioth's mouth without a hint of gentleness. Then a second, then a third. Her smile is toothy, glinting, and more than a little evil when she sees the proud matron's cheeks bulging. You Annunaki love your excess, don't you? Then you must be enjoying this. Marianne pulls the final strip of dress taut and ties it between the lips. Her fingers drag slowly underneath Jerioth's chin, and then she rises and repeats the gesture with the toe of her boot. 

"There, class is in session. Aren't you lucky? Now come along, today's lesson is a field trip, yes!"

She grabs up her makeshift leash and, with a powerful backflip, dives into and then through a corner of the hallway, dragging her "student" behind her.