After Zorlo had accepted the gift, Vana had left promptly, taking a piece of cake with her, knowing what was next. Not many people noticed as she left, taking a route that people who may or may not be following her would expect, out of an open window. Being free of the muslin package, the Coquette had felt a lot more like herself, no longer weighed-down by anything other than the thoughts of the battle that shall come. She had scaled the fire-escape of the neighboring building an inn or tavern of some sort before nibbling upon the wedding cake, peering down at the bustling street. She had finished it swiftly, licking her fingers and continuing onward toward where she had arranged for lodgings to be prepared.
The small, comely, and outrageously expensive room was four buildings down the road and across from the place where the wedding had taken place, located in a rather large Inn. The quaint window was opened, the thick antique glass making the light that entered through it seem rippley, creating a small pool of light above the square that the open space allowed entrance. Its thick lavender scent wafted out the window, trying to take the thin lace curtains with it, into the cooling air, the reason it had been forced open. A milk colored hand placed a glass globe filled with dried flowers upon the seal, removing the origin of the overbearing fragrance from the room, yet it still clung heavily to the thick velvet comforter of the bed, and to the royal print wallpaper.
A crimson pool lay at her poised feet, its last lingering touch leaving her skin as the legs lifted to step forward and out of the silk, bright against the burgundy of the hard carpet. The rustling of cotton undergarments being put on filled the silence of the room, followed shortly by a near-metallic rasp as something else was taken from the bag at the foot of the low laying bed, which was emptied finally with a light thud of footwear falling to the ground.
Vana Huine watched herself in the full length mirror, making sure that the undergarments were correctly put on, cinched in the correct places and folded just so, in the traditional manner. It was rare that a Coquette entered war, but when they did so, there were customs to accompany it. First, the armor, or lack of one must follow tradition. With the under-robe, and then the armor, and then an outer robe. Her people were not meant for plate mail, it was far to heavy for their fighting styles, thus usually the armor was simple chain mail, or light armored plating including greaves, making the outfit not in the least bit suffocating. The Sisterhoods did nothing in folly, and Vana would not question the tradition, as it had served her well in the past.
She, however, was unique in a sense. The Lady Huine traveled, far and wide. Across dimensions, times, universes and locations one had not dreamed of, although not of her own accord, wherever her missions took her and the Kitra Mage sent her, was where she went. This uniqueness manifested itself in a robe that seemed to be composed of jet, yet moved like silk. She had acquired it in Gondolin, a city where many people with pointed ears resided, the Noldor she had heard them referenced as, in one of two tongues. It was a confusing place for her, but nonetheless, she had gotten the information she was supposed to have collected. Whereupon wandering the city, waiting to be summoned to home, she had happened upon the most extraordinary of blacksmiths. Many things he made seemed to be made of obsidian, and others had intricate designs in the same black substance, fine armors and glaive blades like one hath ever seen. In exchange for a very rare Orichalcum fan, she commissioned a robe made of this material, which he told her was named
Galvorn.
The jet metal gleamed as it wavered in her hold, the thin silk like texture seemed as if it wanted to run through her fingers, like molten steel. Over the under-robe it slid effortlessly, yet it was more difficult to get it folded along the edge in the traditional manner, but Vana managed to get it finished, looking much the part of a member of the Soul Society, the black and white folded in a very similar, but much more intricate manner. She gathered her hair, the perfect spiral strands not unruly in the least bit, she twisted it into a tail at the back of her head, the naturally purple streaks making it appear very like a peppermint stick. She curled this around itself, creating a tight bun, which she stuck in place with dozens of tiny pins.
The sound of shattering glass interrupted the Temptress as she reached over to the nightstand for the first of the white leather sheathes. She turned upon her naked heel, amethyst oculars narrowing into a starburst-surrounded slit, the thick stripes of violet expanding to frame the thin black pupil strikingly. Green light reflected off of them, the woman returning the deadly purple needles to their home upon her wrist as she padded forth to take the slip of paper that wafted toward her in the sphere of aura. For a second, a cold burn surrounded her hand, before it dissolved and the green melted into the air. Looking at the sheet briefly, she placed it upon the counter of the mahogany nightstand, sitting upon the bed to slip the Tabi boots on, experimentally flexing the split toe and then the rest of them on each foot, assuring their fit. Finally, slipping the four sheathes into her sash, Vana jumped out the open window, landing with the sharp crunch of glass and dried scented herbs in the street.
It took only a few moments for Vana to reach the others, smiling emotionless at Zorlo, her perfect primrose lips seeming lackluster as they were without the usual framing of her hair. In her eyes, bloodlust shone in the feral feline eyes, the cat who would finally get to the canary.