Lasciel is perched on a crate of props, nearly human today except for the scarlet reptilian wings stretching lazily behind her. Waiting, it would seem. Zariel is looking more human than that, even, his wings entirely gone as he steps through the somewhat packed space. He approaches Lasciel wordlessly, rubbing at half of his face with a hand. Lasciel absently conjures a lit cigarette. "The word was that you wanted to see me," she says. "The criers are howling in Cataract. Your doing, I suppose?" "Shining Ones," Zariel remarks tiredly, "It was a very long night of chaos and pulling out hair."