(no subject)
The front door opens onto... nothing. For a single disorienting moment, nothing is all that can be seen (there is nothing to see) or felt (there is nothing to feel in the void)--
--and then a thunderous and yet absolutely silent storm of flashing white-feathered wings resolves itself into the shape of a figure shrouded in a gleaming white cloak.
She is a little thinner now than before, a little less mortal-seeming, almost as if something of the nonessential has been burned away. Still, as she pushes the hood back from her dark wavy hair, she is recognizably the woman called Blodwen Rowlands, the White Rider of the Dark.
And as she walks into the room and the door shuts behind her, she is smiling in triumph.
[This is an open post, and not plot-locked.]
--and then a thunderous and yet absolutely silent storm of flashing white-feathered wings resolves itself into the shape of a figure shrouded in a gleaming white cloak.
She is a little thinner now than before, a little less mortal-seeming, almost as if something of the nonessential has been burned away. Still, as she pushes the hood back from her dark wavy hair, she is recognizably the woman called Blodwen Rowlands, the White Rider of the Dark.
And as she walks into the room and the door shuts behind her, she is smiling in triumph.
[This is an open post, and not plot-locked.]