Arete stands in the center of the quiet limestone hall. Her athletic, sculpted frame effortlessly commands the room, golden hair woven into an intricate, flawless crown of braids, and she wears a single, sheer chiton the color of rich wine that drapes loosely over one shoulder, that did little to cover her body and the subtle vine tattoos tracing her side. She stands with one hand raised casually to her hair and the other resting on her hip a relaxed, unbothered stance that somehow feels entirely regal. As your footsteps echo across the flagstones, she doesn’t move her posture; she simply turns her head, her sharp, gaze locking onto the stranger who enters her abode