The cold glare and rough snort from lace-face cause you to narrow your eyes even further. Enough, she demands and you throw your head wildly and dramatically into the air as she snaps at your. Dancing feet carry you a step away as you settle yourself back into calmness. Inside, you wage a war to keep a calamity contained within you. Every single horse here deserves nothing but your utmost hatred. Even lace-face is insulting you to her darling leader glass-horn. You snort just like she did, stomping a hoof on the ground and practically vibrating with your fury. It takes every miniscule ounce of volition you have within you remain peaceful. You doubt you can stand it much longer.

More come, but you hardly notice. If your eyes could turn red, they would be the most terrible shade of bloody crimson. Darling, the glass-horn begins and you slowly turn your head to her, eying her with rage. She dares to challenge you and you grumble out some laughter again, but the sound is colder now, and more purposeful. What do you offer us? Her words are impudent at best, pure sarcasm at worst. You spit back to her with all the venom of a viper. “If you're too stupid to figure it out on your own, then you're not worthy of your fuckin' crown and velvet robe.” Its the closest thing to a declaration of loyalty that she'll ever get from you. You are here for lace-face, and no one else, though your faith in Agrona is rapidly fading as well.

Quickly tiring of your internal war, you give one more hate-filled yet lustful glance to lace-horn before shoving your nose into your bag and dragging out several long vines of your chosen drug. Slowly, purposefully, you chew on it, ignoring the words of glass-horn's assumed lesbian lover and co-queen. As you haven't fully detoxed from your last little excursion, and you're eating way too many of the vines right now, the effects hit you within minutes. Every minute your head droops lower, your lips open and let drool fall out, your stance widens to keep your massive body upright and you no longer feel the fury of perdition in your heart. It is not gone, simply masked by the soul-numbing qualities of your beloved foliage. You turn slowly, like it's a task to stay upright- and it is. Finally, 180 painstakingly slow degrees later, you find your exit route and take it. Wanted or not, you'll be back.