Phoe

Breathless Dead

"HA! Tell me something I don't know, why don't you? As if I trusted that stapled together piece of shit in the first place."

Bella's laughter is rippling and wine soaked, despite all of her restraint. Her whole body is filling with hot, shivering pressure that crashes across her like a wave. And just like a wave, it leaves wetness and longing in its wake. Still dripping laughter, she turns eyes suddenly sharper than her claws to the stage beneath her.

She drinks in every detail this time. Not just the pleasure and the spectacle, but everything it means to be part of the Dance. The stomp of every foot. The crashing, crumbling, crushing surge of machines and the way they tear themselves to pieces or fly into a frenzy that would rival the Ceronians in the name of their Praetor, their Bella, and the Imperial authority that she wields. The way they flood around Redana and sweep her gifts into the furthest reaches of the background, turning her from destined princess to the merest stagehand.

See it? See that? The most beautiful, most perfect person in the entire universe and just this second she isn't fit to be background music. Her role in the unfathomable game the gods are playing is less than the merest pawn. She was music! Lightning! Power! She's helpless against these mass produced shadows of a third-rate emperor. Even the legendary Pallas Rex is just a dancer in the hall, part of the game, part of the show, no nightmare of steel and inexorable death this. Molech probably didn't even know this Cavel-whatever unit existed, and look! Look! This entire stage is nothing but a testament to the crippling inferiority of space and the inexorable glory of Tellus. Nothing here could match the perfection of Nero. Nothing was... worth her love, was... nothing...

"I am in command here," she snaps across her own reverie, "And if anyone here is stupid enough to think otherwise, they won't live to see the next dawn. The only reason they've got room to be so fucking stupid in the first place is because their delusion suits my purposes right now. See what happens the second that it doesn't!"

Bella's heart is beating like it's being squeezed. She breathes as though a dark clawed demon is ripping the oxygen from her lungs as quickly as she can pull it in. Her eyes flash wild and predatory, the flexing of her claws dares her own Kaeri to speak up and try getting off the script. The wineglass in her hand sits with delicate primness in the middle of the storm, unbothered by the noise and fury because it knows that it alone is cared for. The moment passes. Bella lifts her free hand to smooth down her hair and adjust her braid as she eyes Omn with artificial coolness.

"...But you're right. I promised my Kaeri glory and here I am making them watch this farce of a play run itself out in front of them. Thank you. It feels... hmmmmmmnnnnn, good to hear some sane council. For once. Hear that, boys and girls? You've sat on your asses long enough! It's time to hunt. Get down there and show the... ehehahahaha, "Pallas Rex" how obsolete she is. Hunt the Princess, drive her from her precious guardian's side. Push her into every crack, rip her stupid clothes to bits on her back! Push her back to me, and I'll finish the job."

Bella takes a long sip of wine with a distant, unfocused look etched across her face. The taste is more sour than she remembers it, even from just minutes ago.

"Oh! And... remember to show restraint, would you? The Princess hates blood, so don't spill any. Fuck this up and I'll carve you in half. Understand?!"

Breathless Dead

Bella is lounging.

She stretches across her throne with the lazy disinterest of a predator who's already eaten her fill. Only the flicking of her tail and the sharp smile inching across her face betray the true intensity of her interest as she alternates between sipping her wine and brushing her thumb across the surface of the cracked stem.

There's so much pleasure in the feeling of broken things. The slick smoothness of the glass gives way to veins of jagged splits that grind against her skin like a rough pebble she might have plucked out of the gardens. Up and down, up and down, tracing the lines where this perfectly crafted and beautiful piece of a fallen empire turned to ruin in her hands. Up and down, up and down. It bites at her skin, it excites her blood, and scratches an itch she only feels inside her heart. Better than a vibrator, ha! Better than the wine. She takes another sip and swishes it in her mouth before adjusting her weight.

An Empress would have stood up by now. Her Imperial Highness would have strewn from her box and leapt into the stadium below to take up challenge and crush the opposition with all the grace and majesty required by her office. A great hero would have sounded her horn or grabbed the microphone and dropped a growly song in ode to the glory of honor and closeness to her opponent as though to a lover before turning the mic stand over to reveal it as a spear and driving it through Alexa's breast. But Bella sits, and watches, and she waits.

Do you see, O Holy Empress, who watches every star in the sky and knows their songs better than they know themselves? Do you see? Your Bella knows her place. Your Bella knows what she is not. Your Bella will watch and wait for the right moment to act, because unlike everybody else on this gods forsaken hovel she has not forgotten her true mission. She is not distracted or moved to some stupid, passionate act because she is a Good Girl.

She grins, and bites back a laugh. Oh Redana, why do you reduce yourself to this level? Your talents were made for a grander stage than this. You deserve a better partner. But it's alright. Just you wait: Bella will clean everything up for you and make things right again. Just like she always has.

She raises her empty hand to the sky. Her Regalia burns with baneful crimson light as it pulses in the air atop her head, its leaf-blades seeming even sharper as it pushes her will across the planet with the invisible power of a tidal wave.

"The Betrayer has refused the offer of the Dance. The Usurper has made mockery." Her voice is like a whip, every word cracking with specific intent for the benefit of these stupid, broken machines, "They must dance. Make them."

[Bella is making a Cut: Separate Them]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

In her time as Lady's handmaiden, Étoile has explored the hearts of almost every member of the household. It was her job, you know? The Resistance needed information, Marianne needed targets, and... and just... she needed to know. Who she could trust, who to be afraid of. If it was even right in the first place.

Her Lady's heart was so beautiful it almost broke her resolve on the spot when she saw it. Inside her was the most wondrous garden, filled with fountains spraying water so clear it felt like she could dip her hand in it and not even feel it, and the most amazing flowers in soothing blues and dazzling yellows and brilliant whites, each one with such delicate crystalline petals she hardly dared to breath for fear of breaking them. The breeze there was gentle and fragrant, and somehow even the storm clouds that hung overhead everywhere she'd wandered had exuded a gentle softness that could turn the clap of thunder into the purring of a cat.

None of the rest of them had been like that. Jezcha's heart was a thing of rot and darkness and broken dolls, and the Seneschal's was a frankly terrifying and claustrophobic maze of walls that echoed constantly with stomping boots and furious shouting. But there wasn't anybody that worried Étoile more than Tirzah. Her heart was... an enigma. The only one she couldn't slip inside of, not even with Marianne's full focus and cooperation. How was that even possible? This is exactly why you couldn't trust spies!

And that was exactly why Lamassie wasn't going to do anything silly like let Lady get her perfect evening ruined by that mysterious, brooding, black-boxed, jerky... stupid face! Hmph!

But what to do? Lamassie isn't a brave phantom thief or a superhero! She can't swoop Lady out of here without ruining everything, and if she goes running around and makes the guards think she's trying to escape it'll be trouble, oh goshies yes. Not to mention if she tugs too hard, she might hurt Lady! Oh no oh no! What's she supposed to do? She's not fast or strong or brave or even very clever, no she's not, no she's not! All she's got is heart, and if she tries real hard, maybe it can even be as pretty as Lady's!

"It's soooooooo pretty here, isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it, Lady?"

Pap pap pap go her silly mitten-paws on Lady's shoulders! Jingle jingle goes her good girl collar! Her silly triangles go flippy-flopsie as she drapes herself over and squishes her body so, soooooo gently against Lady's! Uhuh, there we go, eyes on your good girl, Lady. See her silly hip wiggles to make her tail go all waggy? See the happy sparkle in her eyes?

"...Is Lamassie a good girl? Can she have a treat? Pretty pretty pleaaase?"

She smiles through her pretty sparkle veil. All she needs to do is be all silly-shameless-distracting for a just a little bit longer, and everything will be perfect and safe again, probably forever. But, you know what? She could do this all day.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

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!

Breathless Dead

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.

Breathless Dead

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.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

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?

Breathless Dead

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?"

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

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".

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!"