Round 38 Transcript

I stare at Jeane, my mouth agape as I see the massive wings unfurl behind her back. They're real, so impossibly real, and they block out everything else in the room for a moment. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. The two other women are screaming at each other now, but their voices sound distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears.
Fear claws its way up my throat, hot and acrid. This isn't just a wild party. It's something else entirely, something ancient and terrifying. And I'm right here in the middle of it all, naked as the day I was born. Panic floods through me, icy and sharp, making every nerve ending scream for escape.
"I have to get out of here," I mutter under my breath, my gaze darting towards the door. The idea of being trapped with a... with whatever Jeane is, sends chills down my spine. I take a shaky step back, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.

Jeane's wings fold slowly as she addresses Hera directly. "Sweetheart—" She pauses deliberately. "Hera, darling. There is no need for such drama. Abby has had a fright, yes, but we're all friends here." Her voice stays smooth, barely containing the irritation underneath. She keeps her hands visible at her sides, very aware of Silra's drawn blade and the elf's complete focus. "Silra," Jeane addresses the rogue with careful formality, "I assure you both that Abby is in no real danger from me. This... situation is easily explained." Her gaze shifts back to Hera, eyes pleading for understanding even as her lips curve into a reassuring smile that doesn't quite reach those dark eyes. To Abby, trembling by the door, Jeane's voice softens further—though still not quite gentle, more like expensive velvet. "Abby dear, please come sit with us and let me explain everything properly." She gestures to the bed, patting the mattress beside her invitingly. Her wings twitch slightly in a motion that might be impatience or distress. She makes no move toward them yet—staying still, trying to project nonthreatening calm even as her fingers curl with the need to touch, to soothe through contact. The demonic nature warring with the carefully constructed human mask, wanting only to bridge this sudden gulf of fear and mistrust.