Ember doesn’t have her weapons to hand: not her sword, neither her knife. That would have ruined the magic, after all. All she has to hand is the suit jacket wrapped around her and her own body.

So much to say that she is not disarmed.

All she needs is that nod, that gesture, and she’s tearing off the jacket, flying the black flag of herself. (You’re married, Dolce, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.) She’s behind the drone before you can say “Ceron!” and wraps her limbs around its thin, waspish waist, between thorax and abdomen.

Redana of Tellus was an Olympic wrestler.

The suplex drops the drone like a thunderbolt. It’s too strong to be stunned, but those gangly limbs and powerful face can’t get at Ember, who uses their prone position to adjust her grip, and then has the drone on her shoulders, now lifted into the air like Antaeus with one hand at the neck and the other at the waist.

“Okay! Where do you want me to put her?” Ember says, tail wagging, suit jacket finally settling onto the floor, grinning broadly at her reunited… friend, yes, that’s the fire burning in her. Her friend! Her Dolce! Not her Dolce in [i]that[/i] way, but how else is she meant to express her joy?

[Overcome [b]10.[/b]]