Black it is, then. Roland puts the tin down, reaches to open the nearest black bottle, something small and sparkling, and- "Gods," he mutters, leaning back. It smells. There's a brush on the underside of the cap which he scoops some of the perfumed gunk onto, and he frowns at the stencil a moment before beginning to paint over the skin inside of it.

"Wish you luck figuring out how they get all this off. What next, since you know so much more of this than I do? Rouge? Or... painting your lips?" He pulls a face but doesn't stop focusing on the stencil, moving the brush very carefully over the inside of one wingtip. "How far do they expect us to go with this?"