Seldom did any others look at her in such a way, be it for her quietness or her resemblence to the shadows in which she often bathed. Perhaps there was a streak of vanity that ensured her attention remained on Grimoire as she squirmed in apparent delight or perhaps Lamia could simply sense that this woman had been honest with her, honest with her intrigue. It might have been that alone that had driven the woman to agree to this hunt, an inkling of its true meaning only suggested in her eagerness. Lamia had never been the one to take upon her culture's hunts so eagerly but her parents had been, her mother especially. Somewhere within her, the blood of Lillith demanded she tend to the stranger's request.

And so, she had followed the woman with a flick of her tail and upon long, delicate strides, fascinated by the sudden turn of events. Yet, she understood her place all the same; this was not her hunt and so, she obediently stayed behind. It caused no issues but rather, it provided her some additional time as Grimoire headed beyond her sight; she took to a different path, nose focused on her companion's scent but her attention drifted to and fro. Still, she stayed close enough. In the far distance, she could hear the mumblings of voices. Her voice, she supposed.