Re: Knockin' on Heaven's Door
The front door of the establishment opened once again, a heated breeze slipping through the oaken crevasse as the frames slipped apart, the dryness of the desert seemed to accompany it. Within its lofty arms, this wind carried with it the sweet scent of water, and the acrid taste of metal, and fire, and the sound of silk upon skin and the click of metallic heels upon stone that rang out with a light tempo throughout the antechamber.
Upon her touch the door just seemed to fling itself open, it was surprising considering how heavy the door seemed to look, so perhaps she had used too much force. It also did not help that a wind had seemed to follow her, throughout her journey across land and time, and probably dimensions, to this seemingly far off corner of the multi-verse. This spacious chapel, where one whom had luckily beaten her in a duel was getting betrothed, or rather was betrothed and was now consummating the betrothal… Vana did not really know of such matters, she found such rituals and sacraments pointless, but nonetheless, she would not miss this day.
The ample sunlight that shone full heartedly upon the woman was warm, although not as warm as where she had just been. Her entrance was startling, she was sure, to the usher who stood across from her, his jaw hanging slightly loose. But mayhap it was merely the visage the Coquette painted. The sun was illuminating her from behind, giving fire to the golden and lilac curls that framed her picturesque face, her savory primrose lips and clear amethyst feline oculars were cast in shadow, darkening somewhat although both shone with their innate moisture. It did the same for the, what some call Spanish-style dress she wore, making the silvery viridian a more forest green, and her cream skin a more honey. She blazed, a beauty incarnate, like so many of her sisters.
She walked forth, a sumptuous leg appearing from the slit in her dress as it so often did, the metallic end of her spiked heel clunking dully for effect against the carpeted flooring, the silver colored woven fabric making the old-styled rug appear lackluster in comparison, the reflective surface glaring in the usher’s sight as his range of vision moved downward and then quickly up once again to try and catch the woman’s eyes as they flashed toward him. He moved past her, quickly, shutting the door, which was actually a little heavy to him, removing the blinding glare of the day. He turned toward Vana, a welcoming smile upon his face.
The spy snapped open her fan as he turned to her, the weapon/accessory seeming to appear out of midair into her delicately shaped appendage. She waved it back and forth slowly, methodically, the unmoving air of the place stirred by enmeshed silk that was supported by the customary ironwood slats of the Coquette battle-fan. This fan was not one of her most battle worthy, as it lacked really any offensive options, but this was a marriage ceremony, how much trouble should there be…
“Groom or bride,” he asked, his voice slightly nervous as the buxom blond peered at him uninterested. “Oh, would you like me to take that?” he then added, pointing to the package Vana held in her left arm.
She shifted the weight of the long box slightly, the thick gold muslin and slick lilac velvet ribbon sliding against her perfectly hairless skin effortlessly, as if she were contemplating the weight and contents of it just by how it felt in her arms. She smiled at him lightly, in a way that her plush lips merely stretched upward, but her teeth did not show.
“No, I would rather give it to them myself,” she replied softly, her soft bell-like voice hanging in the air. “Which side do I sit upon?”
The man pointed to the correct one, and Vana followed the direction he pointed to. She decided to sit near the front, in hopes that perhaps before the ceremony began she would be able to give the couple their gifts. It was just that something did not really feel all that right; her feral instincts told her that she did not belong in this place. But perhaps it had been her journey through the treacherous deserts to the blacksmith whom had made the gifts, and the subsequent swift journey back home to have her gifts enchanted by the house’s Kitra Priestess that made her feel this way.
The woman who only looked nine years old ran her hands over the ornate metal. Her fingers following the elegant curves of the rose stem-shaped, and green stained, steel. She touched every single one of the many petals that made up the middle of the fan, somehow even reaching under where they overlapped from one step to the next without cutting herself. She then ran her palm over the red rose heads, tops ground razor sharp, no blood appearing, just a soft red glow. She then put the small, for a battle fan, fan down, and grabbed the dagger but its but, the head of the rose. She redid the same process, hands perusing the wavy blade that was the leaves and some stem, while the stem served mostly as a blood-flow, slightly indented from the rest of the blade.
“Your craftsman did well, very well on these. Which house were they from?” the Kitra asked, her voice wizened far beyond the look of her body.
“Not a house, for this I traveled to a far away land. A place called Hyrule,” Vana replied, looking at the priestess quizzically. “So, what will they do?”
“I need not tell you, you will find out soon enough. Far too soon enough,” she stated, getting up and retreating into her complex hall of rooms.