XII: [ visual | location: Shelley ] Would you like me to lie to you now?
Her sarcophagus. Her resting place. She had gone to visit it mere moments ago, as a means of connecting with a past she can no longer return to.
Too many things to ponder on. Too long had she been held in this place, against her will, against her desire. And she can find no means to alleviate her increasing discomfort. Her recent bout with Spike, and even with the vampire leader, had helped little to comfort her. Her conversations with the younger Wesley only confirmed her thoughts.
She had no purpose here. She had no place here.
And yet this realization is not new.
Illyria reaches out to touch her sarcophagus - when the glitch hits.
She watches, disturbed, as her skin, her armor changes. How can this be? She had no desire to look like Winifred. Illyria had not willed it. She throws her head back, closes her eyes - nothing.
She grits her teeth as suspicion begins to gnaw at her. Lashing out, she pushes her sarcophagus away until it crashes and destroys one of the walls.
Amidst the dust and debris, Illyria stands panting. Her tablet, attached to her wrist now, records her movements as she begins to inspect her borrowed form.
Too many things to ponder on. Too long had she been held in this place, against her will, against her desire. And she can find no means to alleviate her increasing discomfort. Her recent bout with Spike, and even with the vampire leader, had helped little to comfort her. Her conversations with the younger Wesley only confirmed her thoughts.
She had no purpose here. She had no place here.
And yet this realization is not new.
Illyria reaches out to touch her sarcophagus - when the glitch hits.
She watches, disturbed, as her skin, her armor changes. How can this be? She had no desire to look like Winifred. Illyria had not willed it. She throws her head back, closes her eyes - nothing.
She grits her teeth as suspicion begins to gnaw at her. Lashing out, she pushes her sarcophagus away until it crashes and destroys one of the walls.
Amidst the dust and debris, Illyria stands panting. Her tablet, attached to her wrist now, records her movements as she begins to inspect her borrowed form.