Panoply: a splendid or impressive array.
Pictures lined every wall and were even creeping towards the ceiling. Three walls were of various figures in black, or the Keyblade wielder and his associates. But the other wall had only one subject – or rather one subject and the artist.
The subject; a slim woman, usually glaring hatefully out of the paper. Her eyes were a vindictive blue and her thin mouth a peach smear. Blond hair slicked back across her forehead was neat except for two strands that arched away from her skull. She wore the same black robes as the people on the other walls, but she was more gracefully angled – she was lighter and more delicate- looking but not weak.
Larxene was not and had probably never ever been weak Every picture managed to convey that, even drawn in the blunt and waxy crayons that were the only materials allowed to the artist. It was some turn of the face, some twist of the posture that showed her for what she was – a predator.
Not that the thought of being a predator disturbed her – she fed off it and revelled in it. Nobody and nothing would crunch her up and kick her down; that was Larxene's speciality alone. To break people and use the pieces to drive the hurt a little deeper so that it would fester before it healed – after it healed as well if she felt like really ripping into someone.
Namine knew firsthand what being ripped into by Larxene was like; the first time she had been bruised for a week. A violent slap had sent her to the floor and she tasted blood on her lips. Larxene had sneered down at her; "about time you got some colour in that pretty face of yours little artist." But she had used the colour to her advantage; as the bruise faded from blue-black to green to yellow Namine had drawn bruises down Larxene's arms and legs.
(and her breasts and between her hips, but who needed to know?)
When Larxene had discovered Namine's secret stash of paintings she didn't react as Namine thought she would. She didn't scream or bruise or break Namine. She just looked, red tongue wetting her lips as she thumbed through the sheaf of pain. Instead, when she was done, she looked down at Namine with wide eyes and demanded more.
So the fourth wall was covered in red wounds and weals. Pain and humiliation burned through every aspect of Larxene - in one picture she had her eyes gouged out, in another her legs were burnt beyond repair and every time Larxene came by she looked at them and demanded more with her twisted little predator smile that tasted like anger and metal in Namine's head.
As she carefully shaded the curves of the predator's breasts Namine reflected that Larxene was not the only panoply of violence around.