Finally leaving his seat, Shwaan stood in front of the mirror, scrutinising his own image for any imperfections. His long hair, now black as the night, was braided to one side in an intricate array of weaves and twists (each apparently signifying some variety of rank or lineage). A single broad purple ribbon – one of the many accessories he had found within the treasure trove of the drawers – was woven through its length, distinguishing him as a member of the Zainian aristocracy (a custom he still remembered from some of his grandmother’s dinner parties during the days of his early childhood, long before the Rebellion). His skin was still pale, as befitting a northerner, though slightly more tanned than his original complexion. Aeriels did not tan naturally, but a little lotion went a long way in creating a believable illusion. Wide dark eyes, framed by long, inky lashes stared back at him through the glass.

Moving towards the closet near the back of the room, Shwaan shed his white feather-cloak, tossing the garment to the bed to be dealt with later. From the closet he withdrew a simple, loose white tunic and black trousers. The more elaborate Zainian costumes would not mix well with the warmer – and more humid – climes of his ultimate destination. Finally he threw on a light, grey frock-coat with dark velvet cuffs, buttoning it a few inches below his throat. It would probably make him stand out somewhat in the middle of the monsoon in Vandram, but then, that was rather his intention – to be foreign enough to be remarkable, yet familiar enough to be utterly non-threatening.

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Finally, in a flash of silver, he plucked a single feather out of his wing and lighted it with a small, golden cigarette-lighter he had plucked out of the drawer along with the other knick-knacks. He then tossed it at the cloak lying on the bed. The latter ignited in a shower of technicolour sparks that would have temporarily blinded any man who looked at it directly. As it was, the prismatic fireworks flared, and then died slowly, releasing irregular bursts of colour and light, without attracting any undue mortal attention. Quietly, Shwaan unfurled his wings and swooped out of the mansion through the same window he had entered, gaining momentum and altitude until he was little more than a tiny speck in Zaini’s starry firmament.