She sat and stared at the suits of armor warily. True, they posed no threat to her; somehow, she was assured of that; that didn't mean she could simply just let her guard down completely. Even then, at some point, just watching the stationary knights bored her. This "clash of fates" made little sense to her as she hadn't even bothered asking the Lord of Sorrow (definitely not an alias of the Heartless One, at least in her memory anyway) what it was, and therefore disturbed her little.
Now that she remembered why she was caught in between being alive and dead in the first place, however, her grievance was with the Lord Draven. Just what had she done to deserve such a petty manner of death? Had somebody observed her, they would have seen how she paced the room, not only walking on the floor but climbing up and down and sometimes even knocking down whatever furniture held place in the room. Sometimes she snarled much like a leopard would, her countenance uncannily resembling that of the wild feline's.
... In fact, when the messenger arrived, it took much restraint to not knock over and wrestle with the seemingly-sentient armor. It wouldn't do to be without peace of mind; Ayla closed her eyes, held a hand to the bridge of her nose, and let loose a long sigh. To release her fury- literally- would give her the benefit of being able to think clearly, but she knew it would act on its own accord and most likely interfere and attack the messenger. Instead she read the parchment. It was fair, at the very least. Is this your will for me, o god Draven? Truth be told, she didn't expect an answer. Since her death, she received no sign or message from the deity of strife, and perhaps she would continue not to. Perhaps if she signed it, she would find out.
And sign she did.