The Willows' survey of the streets provided her with more reservations. They wove, cut, curved up and steeply as the lace-work confusion of street spread in perilous design that made the End its seedy, backwards self. In her assessment, she pressed her palms together, making a steeple with her fingers that pointed at the ground. She wasn't impressed with Rhy'Din so far, perhaps because that brain of hers couldn't focus with random, uncompromising thoughts zipping in and out, the 'Crickets' chirping incessantly in the foreground of those ridgid brain waves, and that withdrawel she was heaving her feathery self steadily through was ever-stroking at her back, probing for her weakness..But she was no victim-yet still Rhy'Din was not what she had expected. It was that knowledge that strained her pretty face, she carried a look of one lost, or one found and not liking what they had discovered.

Steadying herself from her trembles and anxieties, she gazed upon 'The House' with the same furrowed expression she'd worn since exiting that hatch. After a quick perch at the Inn earlier in the day, she had noticed how much of what was evaporating intrigue was indeed hot air. Any talk the fearful had was for no good reason. Pausing, she bit her lip as she lowered those bronze seeming eyes, the sandy ground washing over her feet, scuffing her sandles in a sheen of scummy brown, along with the rest of the mostly white outfit she had thrown on-her white Hostmans jacket, snowy bodyglove now too riddled with that ruddy film of sand. She lifted a hand and absently ruffled her hair, her other hand sliding behind her neck-she always did that when considering. The fearful had no good reason. They just didn't.

Casting her dim gaze again upwards she sent those shamelessly long legs up towards the house, breathing the days itchy heat in and expelling it in cool draughts. She halted before she knocked on the door, suddenly hunching forward and crouching against the wall beside, as she paced her thoughts and studied her reasons-her eyes misted some as she turned to face the door, her leg propped behind her, as she waited...She waited..She waited.

With a turn of her head, leg still propped behind at the gate, her eyes adjust taking in the two Men, eyes dim and bronze as moments before, unchanging despite the childish, however expected, mockery, degrading her for all they assume she's worth. She had the violent urge then to spit at their feet, but sure as hell her eyes were good at their masquerading her perceptions- her mirth or displeasure, as she cast them down and rolled her shoulders back, eyeing the sandy earth.

"Gla'helmio'"was all she let rip their way, with her gaze fixed now on the Iron wrought gates, she was thin enough to squeeze through she figured, and that brought that crooked little grin to her otherwise expressionless facade. The semi-darks came again to the guards, her shoulders bent into a disproportionate sling as she hunched forward with her hands snug in her pockets and her chin tilted back, as though she were studying them, for all they're worth-she was an awkward seeming elongated shadow of a thing, there in the sandy, ruddy faced heat of the day. What threat could the waif be? She was barely half the size of one of them, despite her stilt-like 6'6.

The pale lips stretched into a further grin, stealthy thoughts ripe within her mind.

She waited .

Moseying along as the gates are pulled wide, she sends a sly grin the Boys way, an insoucience to her step as she sways her hips and heads towards the door, her right hand slowly drifting behind her as she unfurls her middle finger towards them, her face forward, as those stilt-weeds carry her to the desired proximity to the building. Catching the scent of Blood leathers, blood veins, she sniffed lightly, letting her senses guide her actions-a precarious tight rope to muster ones wit upon. But she was out of options.

The Willow hunches then at the door, fingers now interlinked, snowy lips pursed as she squints her eyes at the beaming sunlight boring down across the scummy faced three-sandy, sweaty and shitty. She dropped her gaze and fingered the collar of her jacket, her free hand dusting off its crisp white shoulders, as she leant back on her heel and awaited the Greeter.

A Dead Warlock she was, and whatever took place here today was in honour, for she felt faith's blade chime and grind in sync with her pulse-the determination was not without a Cause-even if a Rebel of sorts she was. So she bent forward an inch or two in fine feather-light form, against the sun and maddened-eyes leering upon her back, waiting for the hinges to tweak open. Promise was the word the wind had generously lit aflame within her net, her huntress senses ripened now, her thoughts ablaze. Deadly, readied. She knew to curb these instincts would benefit, but the guards had set gasoline to her embers, the torch now, it was fully alight. She fretted then..fingers roaming the jacket collar in dagger jolts. She paused, letting out a raspy flavoured breath.

"Cool it", she cut beneath her breath.

Expressionless, she was then quiet.

She waited