∞ the ideal has many names, and beauty is but one of them.
Xanadu has become a refuge of sorts - a mental health retreat, if you will - during the war in the Deepmoor. Nuala comes to the nexus far less often than she once did, but she values her time here all the more; her new life is something that she's finally grateful for, now that she has something to dedicate it to, and these moments seem all the more precious for it.
It doesn't hurt a bit when she turns down a garden pathway and discovers just where her pool of moonlight, with its dangerous, tempting depths and the stone ruins of what once was a courtyard happened to get to when the nexus, static and ever-changing, slid smoothly into the cityscape that newcomers know. The place is the same, untouched since the last time she knew it with the same grassy alcove where she slept the first few nights and the sense of her presence lingering as the blood she spilled did.
«Go on, Lonán,» she says, absently, handing him her cloak. «I would have a moment alone.»
The centaur hesitates, then excuses himself to just the edge of earshot, and Nuala dips her hands familiarly in the liquid light. She minds interruption less than a tendency to dismiss her bodyguard might imply.