"Lilyana," cries Fangorn, agasp, standing quickly to greet his beloved as she ducks from out of the tent. Carefully, Ithuriel trails her out, a few small parcels stowed away in his hands, along with a gleaming sword attached to his belt. From the glossiness of its appearance, I might hazard a guess that the device is newly forged, by the hands of a masterful angel craftier too, judging by its quality.
He looks rather pleased with it.
"Is everything sorted, my Queen?" Fangorn smiles, wiggling his eyebrows to the wingless angel who stops herself short in front of him. As graciously as the metal wings in his hands will allow him, the scarred vampire bows low, the messy strands of his hair falling over his eyes despite how neatly he had attempted to arrange them. When he stands again, his hair remains a mussy mess of strands, enough so that one might suppose he walked through a hedge backwards.
