As Galla reaches the heights of her passion, a tread enters the room from the staircase leading up - one set of feet, sandalled and poised in their gait.  But it is another figure, one whose entrance was soundless, who speaks to Galla in a familiar voice of duskwine.<br/><br/>"I was informed that you were having difficulty settling in."<br/><br/>There stands a woman, regal in aspect, her dusky skin so sheer as to seem oiled.  Under a snug bodice and loin cloth of leopard skins, her lithe body is a weightless work of dark oil, sculpted into smooth muscles and generous curves.  Every aspect of her has the elegance of the bowstring or the softness of ablution to it.  She radiates a dark regality.  She stares down at Galla and Dionysios with an expression seemingly washed clean of emotion by the wind of the desert that emanates its heat from her flesh.<br/><br/>Her eyes, trimmed in curlicues of kohl, draw their wet onyx over Galla, as Catulus stands beside her, looking as majestic as a man thoroughly out of sorts can.<br/><br/>"I was perhaps misinformed."<br/><br/>To Dionysios, and any other who sees her - no matter how coarse or jaded or presumptuous - she is royalty.  Her massive breasts support a bow's sling, and chains of gold comprise her belt.  Her features are cherubic, almost girlish, but with the airy quality particular to a bred princess.  She stands in the manner that demands others to bow before her when she is in repose, to move aside when she moves.  She is unmistakably, beguilingly dominant.<br/><br/>To Galla, she is unmistakably Myrine.<br/><br/>