She passes through the courtyard, not a slight hesitation in her step betraying her interest. A polite, neutral expression (marred somewhat by the brass gag, but one works with what one has) masks her attention, paid to corners, cracks in the wall, places to hide. Not useful now, she's still bound and has an escort, but later. Knowing the terrain helps.

She pauses for a second as she comes into view of the Gate. A moments break in her step, eyes flicking across the closed door, taking in the unnatural light, the shifting shadows, before coming to a stop where directed and kneeling. Mud's not worth paying attention to. Half dozen dolls, certainly enough to win out against her if she tries to escape now, bound as she is. A gate to hell in front of her: she'd likely rather die than go through. An unstable warlock behind her: frankly, likely her best tool for escape.

She turns over what she knows, reviews old training, as she kneels in front of the gate. Something to consider instead of the other side, and what she's waiting for. One does not panic when one can plan. One does not panic when one has information to sort. Eventually, one does not panic, period. Until something comes along to disturb the careful mindlessness.

There is silence. There is knocking on the door, a moment of blaring noise, and then silence again. And eventually, there is those same discordant chords, as the door opens and somebody slithers out.

“Disgusting,” comes the new voice, as sounds of heavy things being moved and place play out around her. “Drab. Muted. Ashamed of itself. Even worse than Whirling-in-Rags’ little pet; at least it attempted something with color. Left to their own devices, they never fail to disappoint.” She cannot respond, the gag forbids this, but she does change posture, looking up at the demon. 

There is no particular ceremony to the Laema's ministrations, even as she's sure care is being taken here. She is cut free of bindings and clothing alike, assistants holding her steady on a rug to avoid dirtying her feet. The assistants measure her, thoroughly, commenting on her body with language that would make a sailor blush. Piripiri hears it but does not. It's not from the Laema or the warlock, so it does not matter, and is simple noise, to be ignored. She does mark Azazuka's gift, pulled out of the rags that was once her outfit and set aside, with the few jewelry pieces she had been wearing, a muttered sneer about treating the prisoner and her things as a set.

And then she's dressed. She floats above it still, just as unresisting as when she was bound, while she's draped in layer on layer of thin, fine silk, translucent and gossamer. A single piece covers her arms, easily seen through, and a half dozen keep her privacy about her bust and below. The rest of her is somewhere between those two states, visible but faded, teasing what was previously covered and proper. A pattern of yellows and greens run diamondback along her spine from clever layering, yielding to a simpler pattern elsewhere of the two. 

She's given heavy bracelets on each arm, a stylized reminder of her status here, and lighter anklets. A thick choker of brass, with a jade heptagon at the front, is put on, and then finally, finally, the gag is removed. She takes but a moment to work her jaw, giving relief to long stretched muscles, before staying meek as the makeup is applied, her teeth painted. She looks in the mirror. She smiles. Somebody else smiles back, a painted lady of Hell, with black teeth and far too much on show. Ignoble. Base.

And then, to her surprise, she finds herself asking the Laema a question. "What colors would you recommend for me to wear, outside of your greens?"