[ Oh sure, now her size comes in handy! Still, a pale girl in undies is... less than inconspicuous, and she's not terribly enthusiastic about actually going in the room if she can avoid it. ]
Devious. Nobody could've seen that coming.
[ Oops. Seems like her default setting is 'phlegmatic' with very little deviation. Hiding behind a stupid potted plant for a dress of all things is going to be a memory seared into her brain to torture her at 3AM for the rest of her life, isn't it? Maybe going for a tacky tablecloth is the better idea after all. Her decision is made for her once the couple inside shift places, giving her the window of opportunity to skulk her way inside and hide behind a decorative pillar just barely wide enough to cover her if she stands sideways. Still not quite close enough though - clothes start coming off and there's nowhere else Mayou can go from here, not even back the way she came.
Fine. She didn't want to have to do this, but if it can't be helped...
A whispered word and a crooked finger - hey you, come here - like calling over a relative of a relative of a good friend, weaving a thin, tenuous string of magic as fragile as spider silk. A fisherman's line of formless yearning, temporarily harnessed for her use: "remember the good old days when you were a river?" The pretty dress hits the floor and Mayou makes a tugging motion with her thumb and forefinger as if holding an invisible needle and thread. Impossibly, the melted water within the bucket surges up and over the rim, tipping the whole thing over in a noisy cascade of water, ice, and a half empty bottle of champagne that shatters on the glossy tile so loudly even the drunkest pair of paramours would have to notice.
A fine distraction to scoop up her prize and skedaddle back out the door, no? Mayou's already busily pulling the dress down over her head by the time she's halfway through the doorway. ]
no subject
Devious. Nobody could've seen that coming.
[ Oops. Seems like her default setting is 'phlegmatic' with very little deviation. Hiding behind a stupid potted plant for a dress of all things is going to be a memory seared into her brain to torture her at 3AM for the rest of her life, isn't it? Maybe going for a tacky tablecloth is the better idea after all.
Her decision is made for her once the couple inside shift places, giving her the window of opportunity to skulk her way inside and hide behind a decorative pillar just barely wide enough to cover her if she stands sideways. Still not quite close enough though - clothes start coming off and there's nowhere else Mayou can go from here, not even back the way she came.
Fine.
She didn't want to have to do this, but if it can't be helped...
A whispered word and a crooked finger - hey you, come here - like calling over a relative of a relative of a good friend, weaving a thin, tenuous string of magic as fragile as spider silk. A fisherman's line of formless yearning, temporarily harnessed for her use: "remember the good old days when you were a river?"
The pretty dress hits the floor and Mayou makes a tugging motion with her thumb and forefinger as if holding an invisible needle and thread. Impossibly, the melted water within the bucket surges up and over the rim, tipping the whole thing over in a noisy cascade of water, ice, and a half empty bottle of champagne that shatters on the glossy tile so loudly even the drunkest pair of paramours would have to notice.
A fine distraction to scoop up her prize and skedaddle back out the door, no?
Mayou's already busily pulling the dress down over her head by the time she's halfway through the doorway. ]