Vesta approaches the Guild of Light looking like a shadow of herself. There are no silken skirts, no glittering jewelry save for the ring on her finger. Her curls are not carefully arranged. Instead, her hair has been pulled up hastily. Her clothes are practical. Where kohl and shimmer would normally frame her eyes, there is only bare skin and the faint redness of someone who has been crying for far too long.

She pauses at the entrance just long enough to steady herself, gathering what composure she can. 
Once inside, she moves quietly to the desk. Her voice is softer than usual, stripped of its usual lilt.

“I would like to see E’ni’cala, please.”

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