[Even the dark side, in those moments when it surges around her in response to her anger or despair, doesn't feel like what's she's just experienced secondhand. (Fortunately, fortunately secondhand.) The dark side howls promises of savage power or whispers plots of exquisite revenge, always wearing the guise of a friend as it sets its snares. Whatever power this stranger calls upon doesn't even pretend to care about the souls who touch it.
Revan quashes the desire to write this all off as a bad job and go back to her book, and after a moment, she continues in the direction of the mental trace, sending a sensation that might as well be a raised index finger. Just a sec. She rounds the side of a trellis graced by a spray of blooms she doesn't recognize, emerging from the gardens onto a stretch of patio overlooked by a balcony. Her mental and visual impressions converge on the blond-haired woman standing at the railing a good five meters above Revan.
Figures.
Triumph evaporates into irritation. The image of a staircase, metal and utilitarian. It morphs quickly into stone and wood and the art nouveau flourishes of the elves, with a sense of questioning attached.
no subject
Revan quashes the desire to write this all off as a bad job and go back to her book, and after a moment, she continues in the direction of the mental trace, sending a sensation that might as well be a raised index finger. Just a sec. She rounds the side of a trellis graced by a spray of blooms she doesn't recognize, emerging from the gardens onto a stretch of patio overlooked by a balcony. Her mental and visual impressions converge on the blond-haired woman standing at the railing a good five meters above Revan.
Figures.
Triumph evaporates into irritation. The image of a staircase, metal and utilitarian. It morphs quickly into stone and wood and the art nouveau flourishes of the elves, with a sense of questioning attached.
Where the hell are the stairs?]