[i]Queen of Light ceremony recently held with fractured results. Second Yukisworld visitor Hazel Valentine Fletcher (friend, correspondent) confirmed Child of Prophecy. Yukisworld residents remain at 1:1 invitation to starlight ratio. Curious property, should attempt to make the crossing in the other direction to study their civilization in greater detail. 

Regardless, subject involved in caravan wreck of a marriage proposal situation. Appears to have no idea of his circumstances. No cause for alarm. Subject is fully capable of grasping the shape of his own heart once he comes to know and understand love. Without knowing the full list of marriageable candidates it is impossible to speculate on the exact future of the world, but given the target there is no reason to suspect the eventual fiancée will be anyone who could persist in remaining a high class threat after claiming their prize. Will be rooting for him, but other matters retain investigative priority.

Mystery Rank: E-[/i]

"Aha. Ravens and Starlight. Well. That is rather... stereotypically Thellamie, is it not? And you say the Goddess gave you an amulet? Was this pre or post her attempted assassination?"

She frowns for a moment, not from any sort of displeasure but in a fussy, lost in thought kind of way. With a shrug, she blows her ink dry and flips her notebook shut. She leans against the back of a chair and taps her chin in deep contemplation. Her eyes rake up and down Hazel's form and the way he carries himself when he knows he's being watched, lingering extra long on the horn-tinsel.

Then she is in motion, taking his head gently between her fingers and tilting it this way and that to see it in different lighting, sweeping her hands across his neck, his shoulders, lifting one of his arms and pressing her fingertips against his knuckles. She tugs on his cape and examines the fabric with the same kind of seriousness to her expression she might have if she were fighting a rogue Paladin or a bandit of some kind.

"They have dressed you in a joke. I see no point in... [i]this[/i]," she picks at the thing masquerading as a shirt with complete disdain, "Other than as an attempt to fluster you. I suppose your attendants find that sort of behavior attractive? Well that's as may be, but this is still a dereliction of duty. Shameful."

She disappears among the racks of clothing. Her progress is only traceable by a few vague "hmms" and the occasional clack of a hangar or sudden shift of an item when her browsing becomes more hands-on. One unnervingly silent minute later, she returns with an armful of clothing in her arms, and a pair of boots balanced precariously on her tail. 

"I must apologize for this," she says with the tiniest dip of her head, "I do not know a better or faster way. And as you so clearly indicated, this is an emergency."

One step, two steps, three. Toss unassembled outfit into the air above target's head. Pounce. Sweep leg and press opposite shoulder, unbalance. Catch under waist before he hits the floor. Use momentum to spin target up and around. Lift, throw. Leap after. Touch. Touch. Touch. Palm on left shoulder blade. Right. Lower back. Left knee. Right. Ankles, opposite order. Grapple around waist with legs and use own hips to reverse momentum.

Land. Adjust bearing, rotate target thirty seven degrees to face mirror. Knock out knees and push gently downwards on shoulders to encourage sitting position.

"There is a name for this technique, but I have never learned it. The Order of the Aurora uses it to dress unruly children, but I have... shall we say 'adapted' it for combat purposes. It has been an interesting experience to reapply the technique toward its somewhat intended purpose."

Hazel has been undress. Hazel has also been redressed. Each individual piece happened faster than blinking, without exposure and without a hand appearing anywhere near anything sensitive or unwanted. Other than perhaps the actual weight of the strikes themselves. In any event, she has him in a stately white silk dress with a modest cut that exposes part of the collarbone but nothing more. The skirt is pleated but plain, a simple a-line to flatter any body frame, and ends at the lower part of the thigh, where loose, cream colored trousers take over the duty. Eclair bends for a moment to better tuck them into a pair of a pair of slender boots with the same brown color as an ancient tree's bark, narrow around the toes without pinching and sporting a raised heel with a wide and flat base. A beginner's fashion boot from top to bottom, balancing the need for easy walking and dancing with the necessary adjustments to posture and the stately movements of the leg and torso that a deer is meant to have.

She clips a bangle that she missed around his left wrist, slipping underneath the flowing, loose sleeve of the dress to lock the silver band and its leaf-like spiral of sapphires and diamonds into place. She pops up to check that the matching earrings are securely in place, and then fastens a golden necklace made of chunky, flat plates of the shimmering precious metal around his neck so that it covers most of what the dress' neckline exposed with something regal and (tastefully) flashy. 

"I have to say, I admire your boldness in setting these challenges. I was under the impression from your letters that you were more... shall we say, shy about these things? I suppose starlight makes Herons of everyone it touches. Each in their own way of course, I found Lady Yuki Edogawa much the same. Still though, I am desperately curious: have you given much thought into what you are looking for in a wife? Or is the romance of the notion that you should discover your own tastes alongside theirs?"

Eclair descends upon Hazel again, though more gently this time. With an array of brushes. With careful art she pulls his cheekbones into view, paints his lips the lightest, softest pink (plausibly their natural color, but fuller and less easy to dismiss. all the better to make a pretty smile out of the goofiest heart. or hart), and dusts a blemish on his neck into oblivion. She paints around his eyes, lines of cobalt and lines of gold, and curls his lashes until they stand kingly and beautiful against the colors. At last she slips behind him again and takes to brushing his hair, every stroke adding luster and softness to an untended mop abused by tinsel.

"There. You are, in my opinion, stunning. But if you are unsatisfied you need only say so, and we shall do battle once again."