Beautiful. [it seems like an odd word, but her home was beautiful too. even in its terror, it was glorious. much more than the hotel could ever dream of being.] Tell me, what does your planet look like? [what was beauty to humans? perhaps the endless expanses of black oceans that held enormous terrors in their depths? or white lions stained in rainbow blood with multiple mouths and fangs for all of them? or perhaps trees so tall they scraped the clouds with bark so poisonous it could kill with a singular touch? what did these creatures find to be beautiful?

her explanation of her job painted quite the portrait, but her ideals did not match reality. there is a hint of shame that crosses redglare's face, but it is replaced with anger.] No. I am only feared by those who should not fear me. I am but a slave to Her Majesty, a toy for the Grand Highblood [something so much softer than bitterness reaches her face when she says his title.], and a joke to those who break the Empire's laws. [and she is dead because of it.] To be feared would be... marvellous.