Phoe

Breathless 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!"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

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..."

Breathless Dead

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!"

Breathless Dead

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?"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall!

Marianne is a storm. She is little more than hot fury in the shape of a young woman, raining endless blows on Canada's and wedging her ever deeper into the ground. Every strike scythes through thinner and thinner air as the space above is torn away from the space below, leaving nothing here but Marianne. No air to breathe but her. Nothing to feel but pain and fury ever more sharply. It spreads and seeps across the audience, but it washes over Shamash harmlessly. The worst of it crashes down only on Canada.

Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall! The words crash like thunder, no longer bothering or able to fully hide her presence in a place so thoroughly corrupted by her heart. Crétine! Pourquoi fais-tu ça? Voulez-vous mourir? Tu m'emmerdes! Why! Won't! You! Just! Stop?!

Tattered shadows billow across the arena like a rotting cloak, as if they were a physical thing, her terrible coat made large enough to swallow the sun. The sound of school bells is deafening, and all the more horrible for how damaged they seem. Louder and louder, they sound like nothing so much as rust singing of the sadness of rot and ruin. Just underneath it, a girl is sobbing. Is it any consolation to know your traitor is crying too, dear Canada?

But every storm has to end. Every nightmare fades away. Marianne sinks back into her protective shell before Shamash starts tearing chunks out of her body, leaving behind a shattered and broken arena, a quavering, sick crowd, and nothing more. She wraps her arms tightly around Canada, and as one they sink through the corroded mesh that had been the floor, leaving only sands and the hope that someone would decide this had all been to save a useless hero from the wrath of a god behind.

[Marianne is clearing Angry, having hurt Canada as her act of 'breaking' something]

Breathless Dead

Bella's lips press tight together as she contemplates Mynx's words in silence. Her eyes, set hard as gemstones, watch that face with unblinking wariness. She watches the line of her... companion's jaw, looking for the quivering that suggests weakness, or that slight twitch of her lips she gets when she's trying to hide a punchline. That little blink she suddenly develops when she's struggling with a character.

But there's nothing. Nothing but strength and a strange sort of softness that fills Bella with a sense of hope that feels too good to be real. So good it might hurt her. She doesn't dare latch onto it; no smile deeper than a smirk crosses her face. Her eyes never lose that sharpness. Until she closes them. Bella's body settles deeper into Mynx's embrace, and for a small moment she lets her world shrink to just the sounds, smells, and warmth of the only person anywhere who can be... no. Who understands.

"Ha, remember when she was training for the Olympics? She got so sucked into wrestling and racing she'd forget what food was. We had to say everything three times before she realized it meant anything. She's always been such a..."

She lets the thought melt into a chuckle, and the chuckle build into bright and melodious laughter of the sort that hadn't escaped her mouth since before the faithful day when she'd laid eyes on the streets of Tellus beyond the world of the palace. It's the kind of sound that makes a person think her voice was made for singing before anything else. Sweet enough to let it serve as an offering to Hera. For a moment the memory is more refreshing, more revitalizing than all the water that was laid out to help her back on her feet.

And then she sighs and opens her eyes, and everything becomes sharpness and hard edges again.

"What we need," she says, "Is to get rid of the distractions. We won't let her think she's playing the hero, we'll cut her off, keep her away from her merry band of morons. Kill them, catch them, chase them off, I don't care. I only need her. Once I've got her to myself... then she'll see. She has to."

Breathless Dead

Bella is trapped inside a prison shaped like herself. All of her senses have boiled away to just two sensations: dry, and pain. The first is the feeling of her tongue, her mouth, her eyes, her throat. And there are, there are, there are words hanging just underneath the dry, but they're impossible to hold onto through the dry. The cracking. The feeling that something wrung her out while she was lying on this strange bed and drained her until she was empty.

She is not aware of the glass in her hand, a bulky and unshapely bit of faux-crystal that would weigh too much if it weighed anything at all. It touches her lips and disappears into the dry with a series of gulps that ring like thunderclaps. Her ears press flat against her skull (and in so doing, she discovers that she has ears), but the sound is deep inside her. Inescapable. Needed, because it washes away some of the sensation of being cracked and yearning like some sort of servitor-shaped desert.

The other feeling is pain. Bella blinks and her eyelids shudder with the effort. She turns her head and her neck cracks like it's trying to snap itself in half. She looks at the lights, dim as they are, and her eyes are forced shut as they scream in spark-filled agony. The rushing of her blood is a snake squeezing her skin and it hurts and her breath is an icy gale that stabs her lungs with needles and it hurts and her muscles won't stop twitching and it hurts and the glass is in her hands and it hurts and the water goes down her throat and it hurts, and it hurts it hurts it hurts!

Bella is dimly aware that she has curled up tight into the soaked sheets again. So... soft. And so drenched, more storm cloud than blanket. Uncomfortable. She tosses them aside again, and in the space of that motion she realizes the problem is herself. Her fur is damp and matted. Her skin glistens like diamonds. And Hera help her, she's freezing. She shiver starts in her neck and spreads across her body in goosebump-ridden waves that spill the next glass of water on the bed, the floor, her lap, and everywhere it isn't wanted. She lifts her hand.

"I..."

But her order melts into a sigh; Mynx is already at her side with a warm towel and a fresh blanket, just as soft and quiet as she used to be with Redana. She closes her eyes as the feeling of skilled fingers press through warm fabric to pat and rub her dry. When she opens them again, she notices her clothes sitting neatly folded on a chair on the far side of the room. She forcefully swallows the purr threatening to boil up out of her, but when the towel is pulled away and replaced by the blanket, she throws herself backwards into the arms holding it. The surprised squeak that meets her ears draws a fresh flinch, but Mynx doesn't draw away.

Bella is warm. Bella is held. She lets her eyes flutter half-closed, still watching the room but taking in nothing. And as they sit there in silence, over untold minutes where neither of them move except to breath or feel the beating of each others' hearts, she ceases to be a desert, ceases to be a prison, ceases to be a temple to pain, ceases even to be a Praetor, and for a moment becomes simply Bella again.

"...Miss her." she rasps.

"Hm?"

"Princess. I miss Redana. My Redana. I just want... why did it happen? Why doesn't she miss me too? Why doesn't she want me anymore?"

She tilts her head back to look at Mynx, and see what kind of face looks back at her.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne lets out a breath with a long, slow shudder. It escapes her mouth in wisps that curl above her in a tiny shivering trail, as it pulls her hand inexorably upward to slip between the chains of her mask and beneath her shadows to brush the tips of her lips. Her fingers come back cold.

"Do you see that?" she sighs heavily, "She is so beautiful..."

Her heart races. Her fingers curl into fists. For the first time, she feels hesitation creep into her legs. But it is not the body of Étoile Ravenelle that holds her back.

"It hurts me to do this to her. Truly. But I must. Mon beau chevalier, you wonderful shining idiot. I cannot use her like this. She will kill us all. Do you see? There is nothing left but this, yes."

No more time for teasing. No more time for reunions. Marianne does not glance back at Celestine to see the look on her face. She steps forward into the window, and melts away.

Damn you, Canada. Where was this invincible battle maiden routine when they came in the first place? If you could not do it then when it was needed, you will not do it now. And if this is how you want it? Fine. Meet Marianne.

The arena sounds with the howling of the wind, the rattling of chains. Marianne leaps through the paths running through her own true body to appear, just for a second, in a patch of darkness behind Canada. Blink and you'll miss it. But the crack of boot on back is unmistakable, as it staggers Canada forward into a web of rusted mesh. The nightmare floor swallows her up to the ankles, leaving nothing between her and Shamash's next pointlessly cruel and savage strike.

Go down already! How is she supposed to save you like this?

[Marianne is using the point of Team Canada just generated selfishly, shifting her Danger up and Savior down. Directly Engage: 7. She is taking Canada's "location", but stay tuned for exactly how that goes down]

Breathless Dead

"I don't care."

The smile falls off her face faster than she can hold on to it as she stares straight into Beljani's eyes. Her own burn with dark jealousy. No more hesitation. No more uncertain flickers in Mynx's direction. Her muscles ripple with unsteady, awkward power as her every thought and instinct bends further toward the Oratus. Claws flex atop her sleeves. Her tail finds it purpose again, lashing behind her with powerful strokes that give no consideration to how often or how hard they rain down on Mynx's back and legs.

"I don't care," she says again, in that perfect space between laziness and the absolute focus of keeping her words from slurring, "You're a weapon. I need stories about your past like I need an ethics lesson from Redana. And if I have to sit through another one of those I'm just going to tear my ears off, so..."

Anger fills her chest with sparks and fire. Jealousy squeezes her with python-like tenacity until she she can hardly breathe. Fear draws her feet too close together, and wine holds them stupidly in place. Her posture is a rigid mess of emotions that are tearing her to pieces even as they build her into something primal and invincible. When she finally uncrosses her arms, the dizzying speed almost manages to hide how clumsy the gesture is. Her fingers find Mynx's shoulder before her eyes can. She squeezes until she can feel the bone beneath the tendons.

Bella's eyes are growing blurry. She squeezes them shut, rattles her head in a way that sets her leash to jangling, but when she opens them again it's even worse. She scowls. She has to force herself not to spit; she can't risk her drink coming up after it. She sways with uncontrollable and bizarre grace that is only prevented from dancing her straight to the floor by the support of the one person on the entire ship who would dare to try in the first place.

"I've heard enough. I've made my decision. Your talents are less than useless to me right now. You'll stay on standby until... no. You'll stay on standby forever. I won't fail. I... nngh. Come on Mynx, we have more important work to do.

Bella seizes the shapeshifter by the arm, using entirely too much claw for her work. She means for every step away to be powerful, sure, and straight. But each one takes greater thought and effort until, by the time her silhouette is disappearing into the murk, they loom larger in her mind than she has space to hold them. Her breathing turns to coughing. Somewhere in the motion, she's slammed Mynx into a wall, action without memory, without context. She pins her there, pushing her face uncomfortably close, until there's nothing in the world but the shapes of their eyes meeting each other and the steam and stench of Bella's wine-soaked breath, which drips heavily across the galaxy.

"You..." there's a command here, somewhere. An order. Bella's sense of strength wars with her feelings of powerlessness, and in the midst of that fight she finds herself shoved to the very bottom of everything. There's a sense of, of, of of of, of pressure, a haze, a... a... white. And in the white she has no more power to talk.

Breathless Dead

Jasmine is the gag that binds her tongue.

It is a hundred times worse than being in the Admiral's dining hall. It isn't any less overwhelmingly potent than her memories of that place, but instead of the swirling cocktail of information and despair, this is like trying to breathe in a one-note bomb. No... not one-note. Bella wrinkles her nose and pulls her lips up over her teeth. There's a... spice sneaking underneath the floral miasma, like inhaling sparks from a fire.

It itches. It burns. It swallows the rest of the room, the feeling of her clothes and the breeze, even the expression on Beljani's face. It's like having a wad of cotton rolled onto her tongue, like a permanent shiver stuck in her back, like a... like a... a hole that's swallowing her up and trapping her inside a world she can't master with a thousand years of trying. No antivenoms for her. Why should she get the protections Mynx has apparently been handing out to every other last member of the ship. Stupid bitch, she probably did this on purpose. Just to see. Just, to... just...

Only one sensation that manages to rise above the noise. She feels it rising up from her stomach in an unmistakable surge of panic (Not panic. It's not panic. She is not afraid). The wine tastes just as oily and soft coming back into her mouth as it did going down. Bella blinks in surprise and clenches her teeth to keep the precious gift from spilling out between her lips. She swallows it back down with delicate politeness. That wine is the embrace of the Empress; she will not waste a drop.

As it slips back down her throat, she can feel it start to drag her down with it. There, at last: it squeezes at her muscles, it rolls inside her stomach, it wraps around her with the warmth of a favorite blanket that weighs her body down with that comfortable and familiar sensation of pressure. She unwinds over the course of several long, deep breaths. Uncoils, really. Her ears droop and her tail sways stupidly behind her, every little swish pulling her down, down, down, draining her until she's empty of everything.

Then it fills her up again with desire. To stumble back to her room and not leave her bed. To be touched. To lean her weight on something that can bear it and feel the relief that comes with support. Her eyes flicker lazily at Mynx.

It takes the effort of an olympic champion to get her to flick her ears until they stand at attention, ready to listen for all the little cues she needs to hold on. It's even harder for her to keep her feet underneath her, to make her arms fold underneath her chest instead of flopping uselessly at her sides. She twists her lips into a confident and sharp-fanged smile, which takes greater will by far than everything else combined.

"Izzat right?" she slurs as she squeezes her claws into her elbows, "You know, talking to you I almost wouldn't believe you're one of them. So eloquent! Such... mm, good breeding. And yet, here you are, stuck in your corner in front of a perfumed fan. So out with it already. I'm really curious! How exactly do I break you, pretty bomb?"