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As the one armed, helmet clad man left, Priscilla turned to face you, lounging upon her throne, one leg over the other. Her hand resting on her cheek, red eyes gazing upon you. Must you insist on sullying my mood with your vulgar presence? she sniffed, looking down at you, almost expressionlessly I had hoped for a pleasant diversion this afternoon, yet here you are to bore me with some trifle or other. She waved her free hand dismissively, the many jewels adorning her fingers glittering in the light. Speak your purpose and be quick about it. I've not the patience for your ilk today.
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