If anyone asks: this is Dave's fault. Offered the chance to get a good look at the boy who cried omnicom and without anything better to do once she'd run out of cottage space to clean, Velvet decided to brave her first (fully conscious) trip through a Threshold Gate and come see for herself what kind of special sort pretends to be a computer for fun.
It reminds her of traveling earthpulse rifts; it reminds her of the arrays used in malakhic teleportation artes. Mostly it's familiar in an odd way. You step in through a hole in the world somewhere. The hole takes you through a strange other-plane to another hole that leads back out. You step out through that hole somewhere else. The whole thing never stopped being impressive, but she wasn't expecting the future of an unfamiliar world - a "universe", rather, although the concept was so difficult to grasp in any sense that meant anything to her, still - to look like anything she recognized. It's hardly the disorienting experience she was expecting.
She has no interest in drinking and even less in singing, but the lounge is connected to the reception area, and - well, she lingers.
She has no idea what this "Dave" looks like. He said he'd be here somewhere. She's not feeling particularly interested in humoring anybody's plans to pull her along on a wild rappig chase unless they're paying her for it ... maybe she'll be able to spot him, somehow, without drawing too much attention to herself.
Yeah, your humble narratix didn't think she had much chance of that one, either.
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It reminds her of traveling earthpulse rifts; it reminds her of the arrays used in malakhic teleportation artes. Mostly it's familiar in an odd way. You step in through a hole in the world somewhere. The hole takes you through a strange other-plane to another hole that leads back out. You step out through that hole somewhere else. The whole thing never stopped being impressive, but she wasn't expecting the future of an unfamiliar world - a "universe", rather, although the concept was so difficult to grasp in any sense that meant anything to her, still - to look like anything she recognized. It's hardly the disorienting experience she was expecting.
She has no interest in drinking and even less in singing, but the lounge is connected to the reception area, and - well, she lingers.
She has no idea what this "Dave" looks like. He said he'd be here somewhere. She's not feeling particularly interested in humoring anybody's plans to pull her along on a wild rappig chase unless they're paying her for it ... maybe she'll be able to spot him, somehow, without drawing too much attention to herself.
Yeah, your humble narratix didn't think she had much chance of that one, either.