<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;">When she steps back into view, the pencil skirt outfit from before are gone. In its place is a single piece of cloth; a long dress, the colour of freshly spilled blood. It wraps itself around the woman like a flame: her legs, ample hips and narrow waist are swathed in it, but when it reaches the underswell of her soft, heavy breasts it begins to taper off, just barely coming up the flat plane of her sternum to cover the tips of them.<br/><br/>It cuts in a sharp V down her left leg, pooling against the floor, near-liquid. Her feet are bare, toenails lacquered in an identical shade to the dress, her hands as well, nails curved and dangerous looking.<br/><br/>Her left arm extends up, closing into a fist and she presses it against her chest, where her heart should be, in a gentle salute of respect.<br/><br/>She bowed, then, her head and neck, a tumble of now-dark brown locks sliding over creamy shoulders, and her voice was a shallow murmur of words, "Master, shall I take her to the Dungeons where she can heal and rest for ...later?" <br/><br/>She can barely help the smirk that twitches at her lips. If the girl thought that the nightmare was over, waking up shackled in the building's most horrifying room would be an unpleasant reality, to say the least.<br/></span>