[@LeamonZest89]

[color=7ea7d8][b]Conall Linumbienne[/b][/color]

Preparations were brief, owing to the seemingly paradoxical fact that preparations were, in truth actually quite extensive.

Years of training at Signal.

Years of honing his skills at home before.

Years spent mastering [i]Luin Celtchair[/i]— The crimson spear was filled with the essence of fire, only one good burst of his Aura away from igniting into a furious blaze.

He brandished it, spun it, and tested its weight, inspected the tip, measured the dust capacity— everything was optimal.

Everything was ready.

The blade was honed to a razor's edge.

As was he.

He had been preparing for years— Nothing beyond confirming that everything was as it should be was left for him.

He would be no readier than this.

So now all that was left, in truth?

Looking alive and facing the music.

He exited the locker room, lance at rest against the lighter pauldron upon his shoulder.

His hair was back in the usual ponytail, but his outfit was anything but: Where before his dress was casual to the point of being unremarkable, now he was undeniably geared for combat, if not war. While his silvery pauldrons, braces, gauntlet, faulds, and greaves were light and had an extensive enough range of motion to not hamper his movements, they and the black gambeson beneath were fairly tough in their own right— the only truly cosmetic touches were the patch of white wolf's fur upon his more armored, left shoulder (where the protection went all the way down to gauntlets), and the cobalt half-shirt and chaps that occupied the space between armor and padding beneath.

A going-away ensemble from a local smith back home.

[url=http://pm1.narvii.com/5902/df4f1d1a234419a540557d97319dd8ae40bae975_hq.jpg]Something to wear when sending demons back to hell.[/url]

Aura was always the primary line of defense for a hunter, true, so you would be forgiven for thinking this change of clothes pointless— But failsafes hurt a lot less than they helped.

Drawing up alongside a tall girl lugging around a minigun— [i]extremely[/i] tall, actually, sneaking an inch on even him, he rolled his neck and proceeded to make a familiar piece of light conversation.

[color=7ea7d8]"You sweating this at all?"[/color]