When you see a model strutting down the catwalk in stilettos and whatever dress designers think people will want to wear, onlookers only tend to see exactly that.

I pay more attention to the models wearing the clothes. More specifically, how they walk and present themselves as they move down the runway. It’s in those tics that their true character is revealed.

Many of the models I see walk on the runway act as if all of Arcadia is watching them in awe. They act as though the whole show revolves around them and wouldn’t exist if they weren’t there.

If it weren’t for their ego, they’d realize that they can be easily replaced by one of the many people they stepped on in order to get to where they are now.

Take our model queen, for instance. Narcissa seems to believe key events in OSW wouldn’t have happened if not for her. She takes credit for freeing the Deathrow prisoners and getting them to fight for the Uprising and for bringing Zeus to the door that supposedly leads out of this hellscape.

However, that only manages to convince the people that can’t separate the dress from the person wearing it. While she played a part and played it well, her ego overstates the importance of her role.

She’s no different from those she freed from confinement to form that Uprising of hers. She’s nothing more than a lapdog for her husband, who’d just as easily replace her with someone else if she failed to do what she was told.

Much like the model who thinks the show would come to a halt without them.

You stepped on and crushed many skulls with those high heels to get to where you are now, from intrepid reporters to horsemen of Apokalypsis. However, you need to understand that you are not why people come to Olympus. You’re just the arm candy for Zeus.

You’re nice to look at, but you hold no real power in the goings on in Arcadia. Your husband is the one that’s strategizing plans on how his soldiers fight in the front lines. Ares is the one that makes sure said soldiers obey his commands lest they’re executed for desertion.

The only power you held was when you turned your followers’ heads into a bloody pulp for failing you, and you traded that away much like you trade in the outfits you wear to the ring on a six month basis.

For what? The glory of being married to a tyrant? For having lights of the catwalk, the eyes of every horny man and jealous woman in Arcadia, shine upon you as you strut your stuff?

I’ll shatter those lights by showing them the brutality they’d suffer if they were in your shoes. Once those lights have turned off for good, you’ll be left in total darkness, with no one left to watch you die.

I’ve already shattered a few lights. I’ll shatter the rest at Thunderstrike.

Darkness comes before the dawn… and I am the Night.