Panic

Xalandra was in nothing more but a projection of a lime green G-string and a bright yellow bra, as yellow as lemons of your own world.

The palace was being picked apart.

It had been a palace, at one time.

It hadn't needed garrisoning, it had not been attacked for nearly one thousand years. There was a customary compliment of guards, but they numbered less than 100. No, this had been a sumptuous home, a beautiful mansion full of mansions. It was a place of grandeur, opulence, and luxury.

And now?

Now there was nothing...nothing left at ALL! It was picked clean, like a zebra's carcass on the hot savannah, everything that could be taken was, and what you never thought would leave was going.

Mortar was chipped away and the very framework of Belinda's power was going with it, dusted from cement to powder.

Belinda was blissful, she couldn't see it, not without her glasses, but Xalandra could.

And she was in an apoplectic fit.

Not from the destruction of Belinda's home and inheritance, but from the fact that SHE was being exposed to the wider world, IN A G-STRING!!!!

Xalandra had taken fourteen years of Dwarvish in the elfen equivalent of high school, and despite getting A's didn't mean she could speak a lick, so when she tried to tell the workmen, "Please, don't go any faster, stop removing blocks!" They had heard, "Please, go faster, don't stop until every block is removed!", if in a funny accent, and so redoubled their efforts.

Xalandra looked around wide eyed, and ran off!

Leaving Belinda alone.