It's extremely likely that Ilde probably shouldn't drink as often in Baedal as she does, and yet: here she is, mercifully still upright on her heels, the tattoo on her thigh visible when her skirt's hem flounces out with her movement, carrying a half-full cocktail glass and looking a little bit flushed. (She shouldn't, rightly, but her illusions sometimes reflect how she expects herself to look.)

"Katya," she greets, swinging into the seat beside her and resting her elbows on the bar; she's breathless, a little, and has probably been staving off the worst of her tendency to get immediately trolleyed by drinking a little and dancing a lot more. Please don't eat her, Katherine.