03 | Visual | Hauntings of Things Passed
"You don't look...all together well."
That voice. It comes from nothing, from air, but it is unmistakable, like a memory
(Wesley)
being replayed before her eyes and ears.
But the room is silent and empty and impossibly small. Only she exists inside its borders. Nothing but falsities, tricks meant to distort her reality and dwell on what cannot be, nothing but--
"Phantoms," Illyria murmurs to the empty room. Disorienting, perhaps, for the human mind. An irritating invasion of unwanted memories, for her. "This place is always changing," she muses, hands caressing empty air, as if analyzing invisible imprints. "Its makeup altered beyond recognition." She stops then, brings her hand down, and turns away from the watching tablet, her voice low. "You are a symptom of an uncontrollable disease."
"Now, now. Manners."
A flash, then, of form. It was there, and then it wasn't. The intrusion fills her with uninvited uncertainty. The room is suddenly potent with the smell of alcohol; it makes her sick. She desires to leave . . .
. . . If only she were sure the ruse would not follow her.
That voice. It comes from nothing, from air, but it is unmistakable, like a memory
(Wesley)
being replayed before her eyes and ears.
But the room is silent and empty and impossibly small. Only she exists inside its borders. Nothing but falsities, tricks meant to distort her reality and dwell on what cannot be, nothing but--
"Phantoms," Illyria murmurs to the empty room. Disorienting, perhaps, for the human mind. An irritating invasion of unwanted memories, for her. "This place is always changing," she muses, hands caressing empty air, as if analyzing invisible imprints. "Its makeup altered beyond recognition." She stops then, brings her hand down, and turns away from the watching tablet, her voice low. "You are a symptom of an uncontrollable disease."
"Now, now. Manners."
A flash, then, of form. It was there, and then it wasn't. The intrusion fills her with uninvited uncertainty. The room is suddenly potent with the smell of alcohol; it makes her sick. She desires to leave . . .
. . . If only she were sure the ruse would not follow her.