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Pleione

Pleione listened with an attentiveness bordering on reverence, keenly aware of every twitch in Venom’s whiskers, every wrinkle on her snout, the pronunciation of every word and what weight and meaning they held. She was jealous of the way Venom could maintain just a casual air about her without abandoning an ounce of her dignity, regal in a way that required no posturing or upkeep. Pleione thought she should be that way, but it took so much effort to seem effortless, and even she was aware of how transparent her insecurity looked sometimes. She hated the look in their eyes, the judgment, the pity.

The woman, ever paranoid, dissected her leader’s words in her head for any trace of judgment or blame, always wary of hidden accusation. She found none, even found fondness or praise in her leader’s tone. Pleione held her head a little higher, stood a little straighter, modesty failing her at even the slightest acknowledgement of accomplishment.

“I want to be useful to the Empire,” she said, voice ringing with determination. “I’m still young, I know I have a lot to learn, but I think- should you make me a Genin- I could prove myself a formidable Chunin.”

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