Philomel was dressed for war, in the clothes that had become so familiar to her in recent weeks. Upon her torso was her well-worn but still unbroken red dragonscale bustier breastplate, with the shimmering titanium chainmail that protected her belly to her waist. Matching the hide part of her torso protection was a shoulder guard affixed to her shoulder; less worn but still having saved her life more than once. Titanium also adorned her forearms, wrapping them in bracers of tough metal, and from her shoulders floated the shining ice-craft cloak, made of blossoms and as strong as steel yet as smooth as silk. Nothing protected her legs, yet her natural skin was tough now, blessed by the goddess she was high priestess to, with the unyielding might of damascus steel. Only her eyes and otherwise naturally sensitive areas or entrances to her internal body were exempt.

And thus she was ready for battle, the white blade of Nameless the same colour as the bright sun overhead as it bore down upon her skin. Its hilt was as grey as her eyes as she stormed towards the red-haired figure who stood amongst the long grasses in this otherwise blissful world. A few trees, Philomel noticed now, took up residence both near and far, with some sheltering livestock and other animal kin beneath their branches in the heat of the day. Just why the monks decided to conjure other life sometimes in these arenas was beyond her - was it for further entertainment or merely for aesthetic? Today it seemed the latter, and for a Matriarch frustrated by love and by the perils of war, this meant useless.

The beautiful woman who was opposite her - she whom Philomel had seen almost as soon as she had stepped from the doorway - began to form her lips and purposed a statement, and a question.

"Hey. I'm Felicity Rhyolite. And you?"

"Hey." Heyyy ... what a childish way of speaking. No formality. Just a 'hey' as if they were old friends. Philomel did not want to make friends today. She wanted to fight. Why did this individual have to know her name first? Why could they not just charge at one another, crying out for blood?

But politeness was politeness. And the Matriarch, although hungry for war and at times in her past a pirate, was still a courtesan. A woman who could, and had, held court before, who was a diplomat when she needed to be, who led hundreds of women to peace and war. One who had wound her way into the bed of one of the Assembly's councilman's beds and then managed from there to find herself involved into politics. A woman soon to be sent to Tylmerande, apparently, to parlay with the Brotherhood for the release of the harbour city ...

Pulling herself to a halt, though sword clearly drawn, Philomel sighed. She had to respond. It was only proper.

"Philomel. Van der Aart," she grunted, hoping that either the woman did not know her by name, perhaps only by reputation and/or title. Philomel would be enough here.

The faun's jaw tightened. With the point of Nameless she gestured at the world around them. "I am here to vent. In the best way I know how."

"What about you? Alright to just ... get started?"