The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Varisia Primfana]

There's a soft intake of breath and Coquette, with but a glance ever so slightly upwards, could see that the red silk shirt is all that Varisia is wearing. All that either of them is wearing in fact. You test me, little bitch. I'll be keeping this debt tallied closely, that I promise you. When you're better, I'm going to wring every last moan you owe me from us both. Despite her hungry, lecherous thoughts, the hand stroking Coquette's hair and forehead is gentle and kind. "That's good, that's very good," she whispers. "Do you want to try to drink something?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Yes, ma'am," she whimpers softly. 

[Varisia Primfana]

Another stretch out of sight, then Varisia is resting a flask against Coquette's chin, a thin reed poking at her lips. "Small, slow sips, okay? It's chilled juice. Cherry, your favorite." It had best be anyway, or I'll slip a dead rate into Allisenne's brasserie next time I'm in Glaley. While she's wearing it. Smug, petulant little shit.  

[Coquette Blacquin]

Coquette's eyes drift closed again, but she sips at the juice hungrily. 

[Varisia Primfana]

Being magically sustained just isn't the same, Varisia agrees silently as she smiles warmly done at her wife. "Slow now," she reminds her. "Be a good girl; wouldn't want to add a sick tummy to your headache and pains, mmh?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

She obediently spits out the straw to murmur sleepily, "No ma'am."

[Varisia Primfana]

If anyone were to comment or accuse the assassin of making an actual 'd'awww' noise at Coquette's behavior, she would deny it forever. Starting with burying said person in twenty unmarked graves, one of which would be the ocean and one of which would hold the adamantine box containing their soul gem. "Go ahead and sleep now, my darling wife. Rest up, we have so much life to live together."

[Coquette Blacquin]

 By the next morning, Coquette's fever has broken. When she awakes, feeling much more herself, she is shocked to find a collar around her neck -- and worse, one that's locked in place. It's pretty, she notes in the mirror. It looks like a fancy torc made of silver, but there's a lock on the back that's hidden by her hair preventing her from taking it off. 

When Varisia comes in next, she lunges at her, but stops short of hitting her, her fist restrained by some magical force. 

[Varisia Primfana]

Coming to an abrupt halt, Varisia stares at Coquette. After a few seconds, she slowly turns to put down the tray she'd been carrying-- breakfast is going to be some kind of very thin bread wrapped around jam and whipped cream, or it was anyway-- and turns back to Coquette, who still can't manage to order her arm to move from where the aborted strike left it. All the warmth and friendliness that had been in her wife's eyes has vanished, drained away to leave naught but empty, frozen rage. She studies Coquette for another moment, then... starts to disrobe, eyes never leaving her wife.

[Coquette Blacquin]

What looks back has nothing of the warmth and comfort Coquette had born only the night before in it. The eyes are cold, calculating, cruel. She bares her teeth like a savage orc, yanking as hard as she can on her arm to get it free. 

[Varisia Primfana]

It's vexing really; as she struggles, it becomes clear that it's not that her arm is held by something, but rather that her body refuses to obey any order that will cause her arm to change locations. Even when she tries to jump up and then not land on her feet in the hopes that gravity will move her, she finds her legs snapping down at the very last instant to keep her upright enough so her fist never wavers. Varisia had paused to watch that part, nodding at the result, then finishes undressing. It hadn't taken long, given she'd just been wearing the same shirt as last night and a pair of leather trousers.

Without a word, she moves to pass by Coquette, as if daring her to try and attack her again, towards her wardrobe. No such attack comes, allowing her to vanish into Coquette's blindspot. There's a few whispers of sound, a creaking noise, then a sharp crack. "I am... I am honestly hurt," Varisia says softly. "I knew you'd push back, act out, yes. But this soon? And to-- to attack me like this? In my own bedchambers?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"It's nothing personal," she growls, in a low, harsh voice. "But you're between me and freedom."

[Varisia Primfana]

"Freedom is a lie," is the quiet reply. "There are only degrees of power. The more power, the more choices. But one never has complete freedom of choice. There are always chains and limits." As she speaks, her voice gets closer, accompanied by the sound of something hard-- not metal, but harder, more rigid, than wood- in a pattern that suggests footsteps.

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Then I will become the breaker of chains," she says boldly. 

[Varisia Primfana]

"Foolish. Idealistic. Stupid." On that last word, long silver hair is gripped tightly in a gloved fist and yanked back and downwards.