(no subject)
Shilo Wallace practically skids to a stop on the smooth Nexus floor. Her jaw clenches and she prays her heels don't send her flying onto her face. (That wouldn't be the best entrance to make - especially since she hasn't found herself here in a while.)
Her arms flailing a bit at her sides, she lets out a sigh of relief and looks around at her surroundings. Definitely not the graveyard. Definitely not the mausoleum. There's a small silver jar or container of sorts in one of her hands and a bag slung over one shoulder.
She moves to the nearest convenient couch, throwing her bag onto it and digging out a rather large hardbound book, the silver container still in hand as she takes a seat.
"What's your favorite hobby?" she asks, almost absent-mindedly, flipping through the pages in her book and glancing at the diagrams of insects contained therein.
She hopes her father doesn't show up. Because - really. How would she explain this?
Her arms flailing a bit at her sides, she lets out a sigh of relief and looks around at her surroundings. Definitely not the graveyard. Definitely not the mausoleum. There's a small silver jar or container of sorts in one of her hands and a bag slung over one shoulder.
She moves to the nearest convenient couch, throwing her bag onto it and digging out a rather large hardbound book, the silver container still in hand as she takes a seat.
"What's your favorite hobby?" she asks, almost absent-mindedly, flipping through the pages in her book and glancing at the diagrams of insects contained therein.
She hopes her father doesn't show up. Because - really. How would she explain this?