Screw Subtlety. This is Gilda Vore.

With a deep breath, Dash took her running start, eyes following the wood grain as the patterns zipped under her. At this size, the grain was a veritable maze of lines, weaving over the wood runway. Guesstimating the distance, Dash took a leap and found her aim to be true, the wood shooting under her and ending as she found herself in freefall what felt like miles above the ground, feeling the wind hit her cheek for a few fleeting seconds of daredevilling. One half flip later, she caught the air again on wings gusting open and entered a glide to catch her bearings of her surroundings.

An open bar, the barkeep washing glasses at the other end of the table. The wine shelves she had just left. A basket of fries on the table, fiddled with idly by the one occupant seated on the barstools- A butchy, muscled female griffin, disgruntledly looking down at her food.

"Don't suppose you'd have any meat...? No...?" She muttered halfheartedly to the barkeep, tearing her wandering hand from the fries and impatiently tapping her claws on the table.

And Dash herself, currently around two inches tall, riding the winds around the scene with an eagle's eye surveying the best route to her destination.

Wonderbolt-only parties suuuuck. The same as any party held by a band of sort-of-soldiers, with the homophobic jokes swapped out for heavy doses of magicky-pranks on whoever was newest, or closest. Dash was often saved only by her own quick wit; it was awfully hard to activate a turn-your-eyes-into-turnips cantrip when you were laughing too hard at the spell's intended target dumping octangerine juice through a funnel into the mouth of the sleeping Bolt just above her on the food chain. So, Dash was as close to a member of the jokes-don't-fly zone as Spitfire was, by sheer concentrated appreciation of a good joke. Of course, when something's off limits, it only makes the breaching of etiquette that much more tempting, and that much closer to inevitability.

"Alright, alright, very funny. So where's the antidote?"

Last night's wasn't so much 'pushing it' as it was 'a particularly creative one'. Poison joke in the glass, raised tenderly in a loving environment with naughty jokes whispered into its ear every rotation on the dot, and down Dash went, her size exponentially decreasing with her plasteredness. Antidote wasn't readily on hand, of course- that would only be an okay joke. For someone like Dash, special conditions were required, and over bouts of giggles, said conditions had been outlined.

"Inside your girl-friiiiiiiend."

Dash's friends often wondered if the Bolts were enablers, but she couldn't imagine what would make them think that.

That had been all the clarification she had gotten. Two inch tall fingering got old fast, and the party died quickly after they realized nothing could top that. So after an embarrassing morning of realizing no clothes fit her anymore and climbing back into her just-used Bolt uniform again, it was time to body slam onto the call app of her phone and bodyslam onto each number to call Gilda, arrange an impromptu date, and fetch that gem back.

Luckily, of all the creatures she was willing to climb inside, she didn't need much coaxing for this one.

"What the hell...?" Gilda leaned away from her glass as it suddenly toppled, sending water cascading down the bar counter. Behind one of the ice cubes, Dash ran hunkered down out of sight through the running water to safely make it back off the table, falling in tandem to the floor with the cube and spreading her wings as Gilda leaned over to grab a napkin. The subtle act pulled Gilda from the back of her chair, and Dash swooped in to intercept the advantage, bracing herself for the tight squeeze under the hem of Gilda's beaten brown bomber jacket.

"Laugh about this later, Gil," Dash quickly muttered before closing her eyes and diving.