What to wear, what to wear, what to wear. Well, Drancy ignores right off Davydd's suggestions regarding her hair - if nothing else, it's cut in a pageboy, and she has no way of magically making it grow out overnight, not that she knows of or is willing to believe in, anyway. She's just generally cranky, by now, too, so she goes with that which will probably end up making her stand out the most, but will also make -her- feel the most comfortable : a punk disguise, of sorts. And so, well, so she goes to it. Jeans are de rigeur - she's not gonna get into a dead cow thing, not pants, anyway. Black combat boots, in need of a good polishing. A bright green t-shirt which looks like it's been through a blender, a dog collar (no spikes, spikes're too aggressive), fingerless black gloves, and a much-scarred black leather jacket. No makeup, but glittery gel leaves her hair somewhat spiky. And off she goes.
     So, well, what does happen when someone dressed like this comes knocking at the door of one of Meniwell Tower's elevators, waiting impatiently for the guard to get acknowledgement that she's expected? That's what Drancy's wondering right now, and refusing for a moment to accept that just maybe she should've gone with a nice floral print frock instead. "Look, I told you, they're expecting me. Now will you call up and find out or not?"

     The round man at the semi-circular console of monitors and phones continues to stare at the young woman. She's not getting it. He smacks his lips, and in an East-side tone, says, "Wot's yer name again? And what apartment?" She couldn't have possibly said anything about one of the penthouses.

     Drancy rolls her eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't get stuck. "Drancy. Dee as in Dog, Aahr as in Rich, Ay as in Attitude, En as in Nancy, Cee as in ... as in Carpet," it's a close call, but she doesn't use a less pleasant word in substitute, "And Why as in Yarborough. The number is Fifteen-Ten. They're expecting me." Translation : and you are the one holding me up, you pompous little flea bag of a man.

     It's nothing special, darlin'... don't go out of your way. It's just a girl with fuschia hair who's going to give me the twenty questions I have no answers for and with revived energy I suppose I'll just pluck the questions from her own brain. There are times he wishes he were the vampire he pretended to be. It'd all be so easy.
     He's different tonight. Less dark and stark, not that she has anything to compare it to, but this evening he's gone for something oddly saffron and black. The saffron's a bit more dark mustard in tone but not brassy, button-down Irish linen, long-sleeves -- nothing but, not even in summer -- untucked over black wool trousers. It's Poshville Dressed Down. Casual -- he's not going anywhere but here -- but he has to provide the middle ground between the ever-impeccable Sandrine and the punk they're expecting.
     Look who's coming to dinner, wot?
     "Now, I know it's a bit weird... but follow me on this," he whispers at the ear of a woman ever bit as tall as he. And he a strapping 5'10". Davydd takes her lovely hand and he kisses it. Eyes trailing from where he and she stand, where doors open out onto the roof and the greenhouse, expectantly to the front door.
     She's late. Well, to be expected.

     Don't get cheeky is the look, the man reaching out to pick up the phone. Eyes dress you down again, as the man says, "Fifteen-ten," in confirmation. As if. With phone at his ear, he says, "If I'm disturbin' these people for no reason, I'll have th ---"
     "Ah, yes, good evening." Someone must have picked up. There, his attention goes. "This is Richard at the front desk. I'm sorry for botherin' ya," his East End accent flattened, "...but you have a guest here...she says. A...Miss..." and he glances disdainfully at you from behind his half-circle console of monitors, "...Drancy?" Or some such.

     "Send her up, Richard, she's late," comes the droll roll of Half-Welsh English. "Oh... by the way... is her hair still sort of pinkish and short? Ah, nevermind, just let her by, shocking as she is. Thanks," And the phone in 1510 is set back down.
     "She's on her way...need me to do anything?"

     Drancy's responding look is every bit as disdainful in return. After all, for all he knows, she could be famous! A writer or painter or - or - or interior decorator! Well, she's not famous, but she could be, and he wouldn't know. So she returns hauteur for hauteur, waiting for the response from the guard. "I told you," she says spitefully, when the phone's left hanging with a buzz.

     The man watches you as he stands. The phone is set down in its cradle. His large hand reaches out and presses a button, and he moves from around the shielding semicircle to heave himself to the open parquet.
     "This way," he chuffs, turning his back to lead you to the elevator that is already opening...with someone else sitting inside the car.

     "No, no," comes Sandrine's voice, "...everything is fine." She moves fluidly around the kitchen, a vision in a rich olive dress. An empire cut, the flared skirt holds stiffly outward, a perfect circle at knee-length. Her copper hair is held by an olive velvet band over the crown of her head.
     The air wafts of something recently cooked. Sandrine looks up and over towards the greenhouse doors. "I am serving white, if that is alright. It goes well with the mushrooms and cheeses..."

     "I'll just stay out of the way then," his voice lifts, and humor rides high on it. It is, Davydd, what you don't do best but should do often. And he takes up a portion of wall, back to the sheetrook and waiting. Patiently or not, he's waiting.
     And the dragons at his wrists are covered. And there are their cousins, rarely seen -- except for by one pair of eyes who now has seen them all. And yet remains. "Sounds good," Davydd says, head against the wall turning, cropped short bronze red hair not mussed by it. Too short for that. And the goatee, slightly more coppery as it would match his hair would his hair were longer and left to curl wild as it wills.

     Drancy meanwhile is engaged in entering the lift, with a highly suspicious look to the person sitting in the car. The person gets the look, then a nod, and absolutely no words - nothing which might betray which economic class she really belongs to. Hands get folded into the pockets of her jacket, and she slouches against the wall of the elevator, chewing a piece of gum. Just to see if she can get a reaction, she pops her gum. Loudly.

     Richard turns away, saying to the young elevator operator, "Fifteen." There is no more commentary. He shuffles back towards the desk, leaving the youth in the uniform to close the door and turn the key to fifteen.
     The attendant jerks and looks over. If he weren't a butcher's son, he'd be mortified. "Fifteen it is then." Floor selected. You're on your way. Fairly swift moving box, too. Almost spooky swift. It's high-tech...
     Soon, you're at your destination. "Here you are... miss..." And the doors open without a sound to a lovely hallway with a few doors. Penthouse suites.
     Poshville Proper.

     Drancy steps out, and well, at least with a number in mind, she can't get lost. She's not wholly without a sense of humour, the thought of knocking on the wrong door accidentally-on-purpose does amuse her no end, as does announcing herself as, Yes, who called for the escort?, but she opts not to, turning instead towards the proper portal. Tock, tock, tock - gloves manage to muffle ever so slightly the full echo of her knocking.

     Now, see.... that, Davydd would respect. Mention it later, and he might join in. Well, were it not for the fact that he stays here when in London these days and not in the palace down the street a bit. He almost misses Kensington.
     Almost.
     The door swings wide, fast, opening inward till you see the crazy man from last night and the environs behind him. Very nice. Scandanavian furniture, heavy woods but light in tone. Classy. Euro. But not as in Euro Chic. None of that chrome shite. "Come in, come in," Davydd stands to the side, ushering her in with a sweep of his outward hand, the other resting on the door poised to give it a push to close it once she enters. "Have trouble finding it?"

     It is Scandia, to be sure. The private apartments of Konig Hrothgar's Queen. Or something like it. The open living area is sunken, leading out to a balcony that is not a balcony. It is enclosed in glass. The kitchen is open as well, a nook serving as breakfast room. But not so far past that is a dining area, it too in lighter tones.
     The walls are in muted tones where visible, crown moulding of eggshell and low wall of salmon. But that space is far in between. On the walls that lean towards what must be bedrooms and private areas, are large tapestries, elaborately crafted. They are in good condition, but clearly aged. The living area is comfortable, couches in light tones as well.
     From the kitchen area peers a woman seeming appropriate to Davydd's station. Her copper hair glints in the kitchen light, but that dims as she finishes in there, closing up for now and turning the lights down. She does not speak yet, but her smile is bright and her eyes ice blue.

     The place gets Drancy's grudging respect, but it doesn't help that she's the shortest person in the room. She looks at Davydd with an expression that suggests she's seriously considering saying, No, and I'm in the wrong damn place, aren't I. This one's got lots of rough edges, lots of prickles. "I'm here, aren't I? Thought your mutt on guard duty was going to call the flippin' police on me, though." The vulgar argot's stamped all over her words, but her speech has an echo of some finer breeding under it, relentlessly and ruthlessly though she may try to shove it down.
     Drancy's eyes then go to take in the rest of the room as she moves in fully, to allow the door to be closed properly, then goes to the woman in the kitchen. It's just as well noone's actively reading her mind right now, for the thoughts which go through her mind are most of them not terribly flattering to Davydd's morals or intentions. And so there's a nod towards the kitchen, and her words, aimed in a low, almost fierce undertone, at Davydd : "Who's your friend?" Meanwhile, memories get relentlessly jumped up and down on, inner voice screaming, Not mine! Go away!.

     The woman at the kitchen moves into the open area, stepping in full view. Her olive dress moves as she walks, matching pumps completing the look. The dress rests off her shoulders, nothing too risque. Terribly retro, in some ways.
     At the coffeetable near the seating area, a white silk coverlet lays at an angle, tips dangling. Several hors d'oeuvres provide a savory aroma. Wine glasses stand expectantly, and a bottle towers over the entire setting. Silver glints near small plates that flare with folded napkins.

     He gives the door a shove, it closes more-or-less politely. "Drancy... sorry, I never did get your last name," he says suddenly, but shrugs it off, "...this is Sandrine, the woman who puts up with me. Sandrine, Drancy Whose Last Name I Didn't Catch, Having Just Met Her This Morning," warm, with a clip of humor, polite but irreverent. Davydd heads into the living room, all but leading Drancy with him. "Some wine? Have a seat," he waves at both women. Fuschia and copper.
     "So..." And he let's it open with that. It will go as it will go. And how it goes. Well, that may well be up to Drancy.

     Drancy is Uncomfortable, and it shows. It's the sort of discomfort that comes to being with people she doesn't know, normally wouldn't voluntarily associate with, and feels like an interloper just by being in the room with. Result : Sandrine gets a vague flip of the hand which could be taken as a wave, and she mutters, "Just Drancy. Sure, wine'd be great." Last names? How classist.

     The woman smiles, shaking her head. "Do not mind the guards," she smiles, "I've been here a long while and they tend to be over-protective." Despite Davydd. "Sandrine Jorgenssen," she offers, nudging Davydd as she comes up behind him, then turns to lead towards the seating area. "Please, do come sit."
     Despite the name, she seems a Londoner. And outside...it is more a greenhouse than a balcony, for certain. Her blue eyes wander over Drancy a moment, nodding at the first name basis. "Sandrine," she offers in kind, dress brushing about as she takes a spot near a sofa, hand extended in an offer to join her.

     What?
     So, he's invited a strange woman in his house, who he doesn't know from beans, really. But better her here than he at her flat. So he'll answer her questions, if he can. But thank god he has a gift for gab. Wine bottle in hand, he pours for three. "I was telling Sandrine we had an interesting evening. Morning. I think I've finally gotten rid of the static cling," in reference to the energy.
     And speaking of energy, it is here in spades. Crowding the room, really, between the three people here. Davydd, still radiant but at least not so much you could use him as a flashlight, and Sandrine. And there's an energy between them. A familiarity that is, of course, intimate. But it's also subtle. Like it lies beneath several layers, under the surface.
     Offering wine first to the guest, then to Sandrine, Davydd mutters, "She read me straight off. Said I was mad." And he laughs, gutteral that. The rumble of a dragon.

     "You are," Sandrine replies politely, bending her knees together to sit in a fell swoop. She immediately picks up a small tray of crudites, offering them Drancy's direction, while with other hand, setting a small plate before her. "But that is beside the point," she grins.
     "Davydd has been talking about you," her eyes upon the young woman, "...since he woke up. He was excited that you would visit."

     Drancy accepts the wineglass warily. The building energy, the intimacy, the growling laugh, Sandrine's elegance - none of this is putting her any more at ease. The less at ease she gets, the more suspicious she gets, too - of course, the only time Davydd's seen her relaxed was when she passed out for a few minutes there, but hey, she's punk. Punk is supposed to be edgy. Not this edgy, though - she holds the wineglass with perhaps surprising elegance, but doesn't drink.
     "Whatever." How rude, how crass, how blunt. Is it just the gel causing her fuchsia hair to lift and rustle, or is it the crowding energies which're starting to escalate and build? Drancy raises a hand to her temples, rubbing lightly as the memories start pressing inwards on her brain again. "Look, you wanted me to come here. You want me to play niceynice with you and your girlfriend, you picked the wrong time and the wrong mood. No offence," she adds sidelong to Sandrine, apparently relieved that she, at least, seems inclined to get down to business to some degree. "Can we just get on with this before my brain explodes out through my eye sockets?"

     Alright. Sandrine stops, a bit taken aback. She looks up at Davydd, putting the crudite tray down. This is your party, the look says.

     "They were your questions, Drancy. I just had no intention on going to your flat. You want answers or the Truth, whatever that is. I will do the best I can. Have a drink."
     In fact, have a lot of drinks...
     Davydd settles in the chair, promptly taking up all its space and then some. "And as I promised, there were no tricks. The phone number worked. I was bold enough to invite you into someone else's space that I occupy simply out of damned good luck. The attitude's for shite." How that all just lilts. "But you know... Sandrine made them, they're good. Have a bit of food."

     Drancy takes a sip of wine, and makes a face, and promptly sits down on the floor. Her head is pounding by now, and what she mainly wants is for the pain to go away. But wine won't do that. "Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it. Sorry if my attitude sucks, but what you see is what you get." Davydd gets a look which is equal parts accusative and betrayed, somehow, though it's doubtful if she fully understands why herself. Sandrine gets a muttered additional, "Thanks for having me," and she slouches down, reaching forward to pick up a piece of crudite from the tray.
     If her skull could talk, it'd have a lot to say. It's certainly saying enough to her, right now. And those damn memories won't leave her be - won't come into focus and won't go away, like a picture permanently blurred and out of focus.

     "I have some aspirin," Sandrine picks up again, gentler this time, "...if you would like some?" She has no doubt it is not the physical, but she offers just the same. "Or water, if you would prefer?" Wine not required.

     I'd like some, but I doubt it'd work. The thought makes the smile slant in crossing his mouth. "Alright then, so long as we all understand one another." He misses the betrayal -- and even if he saw it and recognized it for betrayal, what would it mean? To him. To the larger scheme of things.
     Davydd takes a glass of wine for himself, a look to Sandrine, a quick smile. You're the beesknees as Edward would say. Far more compassionate than I. "How's your head?" he asks, as if he knew. What he's referring to is the damn-near concussion he figured she got when she bashed her head into the confessional.

     The longer she stays in here with this trinity of power going on, the worse her head gets, and that's what she'd say if she knew to say it, but Drancy hasn't got a hope in hell of knowing that much. The fact that she's slightly greenish, and it's not her shirt, might say more about it. She puts her head between her knees, and takes a deep breath.
     "Fine." Well, if that isn't a lie right through the teeth. "Don't worry about me, I'll be a-okay. Anyway, what'd you want to talk about?" If she can just find her breath, she'll be fine. The sooner this is over with, to her, the better. Concussion? She has no idea that Davydd could be referring to anything other than this swirling constant glitter and glamour.
     "Thanks anyway," she adds belatedly to Sandrine, slowly pulling her head up from between her knees. "I... don't think aspirin'll do much good, and anyway, I'm sensitive to the stuff. Right now I think it'd make me throw the heck up," she said heck instead of hell, she must not be feeling well, "and it'd be a shame to ruin your lovely rug." And lo, the well-bred young lady under the punk comes out, under duress.

     "Davydd," Sandrine murmurs, "...maybe we should do this another time," she observes. "Do you...want to rest on the couch, Drancy?" she wonders, narrowing her gaze. "Davydd," Sandrine calls again, almost in a do something tone.

     He can do something, and again he will. Even though he wonders as he stands if it might make matters worse. Davydd crouches, balanced on the balls of his feet. For all his bulk, he does it easily, almost lightly. "I think you may be right," he murmurs. And though he has been entreated to do something, he doesn't trot off after the aspirin, a cold compress or anything. He places his hand upon the back of the young woman's neck.
     And there's no stinging energy. Again, there is warmth that seems to extend from his fingers, moving outward to skin, then muscles. Does the voice within you speak the name of heather again?
     "I used to have falling spells," he says quietly, though both women can hear him. "Just keep your head down and breathe deeply. It'll pass..."

     "Are you certain, Davy, that...that's a good idea?" Whatever it is you're doing. Sandrine sits in fascination, despite her misgivings, and wonders if more traditional methods would be appropriate. Her head tilts to the side as she tries to watch his hand and his hope for success.

     "I will admit that I do not know, cariad," a Welsh endearment on a soft voice. The dragon's rumble hasn't been heard in a while -- heard best in raucous laughter. But now, nowhere. There is only the lilt and the drag of Cymric tugged English.

     Well, Davydd's hand on the back of her neck has a very pronounced, noticable effect on the young woman. To be specific, she leans forward further, head sinking further between her knees. "...cynhorthwy..." Words she doesn't know again start tumbling, pressing out of her lips. Help me, she says, though only those who know welsh would know it. She doesn't even know it herself. "Paham?" Why?
     And then, o unfortunate happenstance, she's retching miserably, though nothing comes up, vision swirling before her. Drancy is not having a good evening. Between gagging, she gasps out, "Ar y mwyaf lledrith." Rather too much magic.

     She's seen a lot. But this...is terribly strange. Sandrine's brow furrows and she looks at Davydd. "Is she hurt? She knows Welsh?" The last is emphasized. She doesn't know Welsh, right? You didn't mention that.
     Sandrine quiets a second, then says softly, again to Davydd, "I..." her head tilting askance, as if straining to hear or understand something, "I don't think...this is a good idea, Davy. She's not...taking this well..."

     The hand lifts and the warmth from his touch dwindles. Fingers curl, the hand flexing in a fist and then he stands. Though Welsh falls from her lips, his words are only in Welsh-flecked English. "Not even aspirin will help. I think... quiet, more than anything. And rest." Pivoting to Sandrine, Davydd nods. Once, and he looks away. A clearing moment, eyes widening and then returning to normal as he looks to her again. And then between them both. "I didn't know she knew my language, and I doubt it is so simple as this. The magic she has ... knows. It remembers itself. And I am a living beacon of Reminders, I think."
     Davydd remains upon the balls of his feet, even throughout the pivot, and he turns now more to Drancy, a slight frown on his features. Brows knitted together, a fiery kind of concern. "It does not appear that I can help you without hurting you, Drancy. I think you need to rest. I will call a car for you, to take you home."

     "Tybed, Davydd, ai ti gwneud a gorfoledd cystal fel tristwch er myn hon enaid." The voice is ancient, ageless, trickling out of her from years ago, and oh so familiar, and not just because it's a recognizable voice, of I've heard this before. The words are familiar, personal and informal. I wonder, Davydd, if you have to do with joy as well as sorrow for the sake of this soul.
     Drancy pushes herself up to her foot, eyes blank. Is she home? Well, not apparently. Not at the moment, anyway. She smiles graciously, and there's nothing of the punk motif to her motions.

     Blue eyes blink at Davydd, then at the woman now standing. Sandrine looks up at her, as if analyzing. Hands come to rest on either arm of her seat, and brows arch openly.
     "You'll understand when I say, Davydd...that isn't...Drancy." Astute woman, that Sandrine. Toreador skills don't hurt either.

     Aye so he knows. But it is not as he thought earlier, that she is some reincarnation. This is more.... embodiment. More like ...channeling or possession, or something of the like. More like... Becoming than having been before...
     "Aye," he says after a while. "These words belong to ... someone... I used to know. Someone I have not seen in... who knows how many centuries. The voice that owned the hands that... made these marks..."
     And what follows then is a stream of soft words, flowing smoothly. The language -- like water tumbling over Welsh slate, down mountains to a stream. A rush of sounds, flowing easily. "I wonder," he says, his Welsh quick as it is fluent, "...if you could think it would be otherwise. Joy and sorrow...halves of the soul, like light and dark form halves of years."
      Serious, earnest. And then he looks to Sandrine. The one who made the marks...

     Welsh...is on the list to learn. One day soon. Sandrine looks at both beings, rather confused at this stage. "Maybe," she rises, "...I should...let you..." hand waves delicately. Handle things. Privately. She has Davydd's story of what's transpired, but this seems...so personal. To run in circles with Time...and meet self on the other side.
     "I will be in the other room, Davy," Sandrine whispers, standing slowly. No sudden moves, ja? She would not want the Being upset. "Just...in the greenhouse, alright?"

     Welsh flows, liquid syllables, light and dark admixed, with a tone of gentle humour. "You did not like to leave... but you left. And now she is here, and she and I are one. You didn't know, when that seed was planted, what would be reaped, but now... well. This is but an echo, leading to truth. Echoes die, and fade away..."
     The voice, so familiar, ripples, a hand reaching out towards Davydd and stopping just short of touching, and the Presence seems to diminish, Drancy replacing it, or rather, stepping into it, eyes coming into alertness rather than blindness. The bemused expression remains for a moment, gentler than the harsh lines of punk expressionism that she habitually wears, turning into a vaguely glazed look. Well. At least she's not throwing up all over Sandrine's lovely rug anymore.

     There is a look first to Sandrine. A glance, dark green glittering as he looks back and forth and then he nods. And he mouths: I will be there.
     And I will deal with this...
     And he turns back to Drancy then...

     She need not speak again. There is food and drink, if either of you decide. With a long look to Drancy, the woman in the olive gown turns to depart, gracefully sliding between table and chair and disappearing into the greenhouse outside.

     "And she does not know. She is learning the hard way," his Welsh suddenly colloquial, modern. "How am I to help her? There are too many centuries between the kingdom now and me..." His eyes lift, catching only the ripple of an olive dress. Forests settle on the face before him. He... seeing the similarities that he had missed before. And she remembered. Remembered not to touch.
     Now, do us both a favor...
     And suddenly Davydd is short of words. Who'd believe it who know him? His friends wouldn't recognize him. "Feeling a bit better," he wonders. This to Drancy, and once again in English.

     Drancy looks at Davydd, a bit oddly. "I know you." She says it like a pronunciation, lacking the accusative, but with a hint of tired sadness, almost betrayal around the edges. She folds her arms over her chest, defensively. She doesn't know what she knows, anymore, and that strange stirring, it keeps rising in her blood and settling, rising, and settling, demanding use, demanding to be chained, demanding to be freed...
     "Carwr," she adds, more to herself, and it's so mumbled as to be almost unintelligible. "Fi atgofio..." That's clear enough. I remember. She coughs, rackingly for a moment, and shakes her head, eyes blazing for a moment. "You going to tell me what's going on, or do I turn it all loose?" She still doesn't know enough, Drancy doesn't, but she's a little desperate. Desperate enough? Who knows what she might do.

     "Yes, you do... or... a part of you remembers." Fingers scritch at his chin, "I'm not quite sure which it is, in truth. You are or you recall or an ancestor recalls, and the blood you share. It does not matter. And as for... turning it loose? You speak as if you're the only one with magic in the room." Eyebrows cock up and then he sighs, fingers to the bridge of his nose. A massaging that goes even to his eyes. "The artist who crafted my tattoos... long ago now. You share a bond and she is coming through you. Your memories... these things you recall, are things she recalled. Of me. The energy you feel... is a part of your nature. You ... will come to know it... in time..." And his shoulders roll. "As I did... as others have before." His hand lowers.
     "There is more to this world than what we see. And you, Drancy, have seen more than most. I think it would be good... for you now to ...rest your eyes a while. You will not know it in an hour. You will not understand it in a day..." It is a trickier maze than that. And a more significant secret.

     Drancy is tired, indeed, and more than anything she wishes she could call up a boyfriend and curl up in bed, but that's so not going to happen. "Fine," she snaps, sulkily. "You won't tell me, or not yet." She turns, dragging her fingers through her hair, and... colour streaks off on her hands as she does. "What the hell? Oh, not again."

     Davydd laughs, partially out of his own need for it... partially out of... an expellation of energy, and then he exhales again. "Not all in one night, no. I think you have enough to last you a while." God knows, I do. Duw. "You have my number, it's not going to be changing. It goes wherever I go, and so... now you have more than most." If he could only tell you all of it. Maybe. Maybe.
     "For now, I think it best that we call it a night. Don't sulk," he adds, quipping. "Most folks I know can't wait to get rid of me..." the low voice rumbles in expansive chest.

     Drancy nods a little, disgusted at the fact that not only is her life falling to pieces, not only is she having odd dreams - not that she mentioned that little detail - not only do her eyes want to pop out of their sockets, but now her hair is losing its dye for no reason she can tell. "Yeah, well, whatever. I'll call you. Or something." She stumbles towards the door, mumbling, "And I thought you only had flashbacks if you did the acid in the first place..."
     And lo and behold - she's slipped out, the room noticably becoming less staticky with magic as she does so. Someone'd best teach her some sort of shielding before she draws... something to her which could be ugly indeed.

Posted by rowan at May 08, 2003 07:54 PM