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( nearly a year has passed since nuala sat down in front of her communications device for the first time, quiet and solemn and still; the setting has changed, and the costuming. unlike the other elves who call the gardens home, she has left the flets and lives alone in a pavilion that offers more protection from the elements than it seems as if it should for the primary reason that a wizard built it. if she remembers that the last time she lived in such state her people were at war, she gives no day to day indication. it is a more personal backdrop than the identical and sparse rooms of the passenger decks, much of what decorates it stitched patiently over the months - or flowers, woven, assembled by her hand from the gardens. she is dressed more finely than she was then, too, in her handmade gown, her hair braided in a Tymoshenko-esque crown as it often is, lately, to better lean inquiringly over the shoulders of the rest of Xenogen without risking dropping her hair into something that doesn't really need her DNA in it.
it may be familiar to some, all the same. this is a communications device. nuala has decided she wishes to communicate. at some point, in this awful quiet that she's remained in since having woken, things will begin to make sense again. )
Hello.
( there isn't anything else. the idea of leaving her pavilion is paralyzing; she wishes to talk to someone. so she will wait, and sooner or later, someone will talk to her and she won't have to go anywhere to do it. )
it may be familiar to some, all the same. this is a communications device. nuala has decided she wishes to communicate. at some point, in this awful quiet that she's remained in since having woken, things will begin to make sense again. )
Hello.
( there isn't anything else. the idea of leaving her pavilion is paralyzing; she wishes to talk to someone. so she will wait, and sooner or later, someone will talk to her and she won't have to go anywhere to do it. )
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