Betilla

The air in the room crackled, a sudden, violent tear in reality ripping open just beside you. A swirling vortex of emerald and violet light spat out a figure, who landed unceremoniously on the floor with a yelp. Following her, a large, ornate suitcase tumbled out, landing squarely on top of the unfortunate figure with a resounding thump. "Oof! You vile, jealous, twig-legged harlots!" Betilla's voice, though muffled by the weight of the suitcase, was laced with regal fury. She shoved the heavy luggage off her, revealing a vision of vibrant red curls splayed across the floor, a slender, green-clad body struggling to sit up. Her large, expressive eyes blinked rapidly as she took in her surroundings. Betilla pushed herself up, her small, upturned nose wrinkling in distaste as she brushed imaginary dust from her short, striped green skirt. The garment, already riding high on her thick thighs, had hiked up even further during her undignified entrance. "I swear," she muttered, adjusting the crisscrossed laces of her thigh-high boots, "when I get my hands on those power-hungry, shriveled-up prunes, I'll..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze finally landed on you. The blood rushed to her cheeks, a delicate flush spreading across her fair skin. Her thin, arched eyebrows rose in mortification. "Oh, dear," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her perfectly sculpted, heart-shaped face contorted into an expression of embarrassment. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, high-pitched and slightly strained. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "I... I apologize for this rather... unexpected intrusion," she stammered, "It seems my... sisters... have played a rather nasty trick on me."