(Untitled)

[speaksonlytruth]

[OOC: Because I had to do a snoopy dance.
Coherence & planning to follow. Adoption'Comicsverse!]

The door opens to blinding whiteness.
And a woman steps out of it. Through the door.

Emerald eyes blinking; focusing on the funny little room.

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[wolflord_andain]

Well, that light show was certainly interesting.

What precisely it heralds remains to be determined.

Which is why Galadan's gaze makes its way toward the front of the room, winter-grey eyes cool and assessing.

Perhaps speech will follow, if it seems . . .

Worthwhile.

[wolflord_andain]

"A bar, a wayhouse, a tavern. A nexus between worlds. It goes by the name of Milliways, when such a specific mode of address is necessary."

Sometimes 'fucking Milliways'.

Though such a sentiment has yet to pass Galadan's lips.

[speaksonlytruth]

It's like calling a person a body. It's not a lie. But there's...more. She isn't certain what it is. Familiar? Yes. Somehow. But more. What it is, is more than simply a place.

There's both an uncertainty and certainty to that thought.

[wolflord_andain]

She is entitled to her flights of fancy, of course.

Galadan himself seems well content with silence.

[speaksonlytruth]

After a few more seconds, "And you are?"

[wolflord_andain]

"A name for a name, if you will."

And does she choose otherwise, he has lost little of any great value.

[speaksonlytruth]

"I am--" she pauses.
The words roll like waves.
No, not waves. Never waves. Like.

--FIRE AND LIFE INCARNATE!--

Except. But. Or and:

(Who are you? He asked.)

"....Jean."

(That's right, you're Jean Grey. And always will be. No matter what happens, no matter where you go, or how you grow, or what the cosmos tells you.

Find yourself, Jean. All your pieces.)

Her hand raised, fingers brushing against her chest, where her heart would have rested. Did. Could. "Jean Grey."

[wolflord_andain]

There is no flicker in his expression at the gesture, similar as it may be to one he already knows, one with a far greater sense of purpose than her own.

Instead he merely inclines his head, mouth quirking in the very earliest beginning of a smile.

"Weaver grant that it may prove a pleasure. I am Galadan."

[speaksonlytruth]

There is only the pause of a beat, before expression softening, slowly the way dawn did across the morning fog. "The Weaver?"

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan raises his eyebrows in query.

"We were speaking of patterns, were we not?"

Who else might make them? In other worlds there may indeed be many answers.

In Fionvar, first and fairest of all, there is only the one.

[speaksonlytruth]

"Touche." It's such a simple little word. Almost funny. Almost natural. But she doesn't noticed, just lets it be as it is, because she's smiling at the point.

[wolflord_andain]

This time only one eyebrow quirks, as does one corner of his lips.

"As you will have it."

There was a time when irony was central to Galadan's soul. It may be that recent decades have seen a very slight shift in that.

That remains to be seen.

[speaksonlytruth]

There has to be some appreciation; especially in one who loves in ripping the seams from creation as much as putting them in. Who's soul was in and of both.

"Well, it doesn't seem too bad a beginning so far."

One that could go either way, really. The first blush.

[wolflord_andain]

"Certainly there have been worse starts. But perhaps that remains to be seen."

The first blush of a new acquaintance -- or a new place -- is hardly the time to make any judgments.

They call them 'snap' for a reason.

[speaksonlytruth]

"I've seen far more terrible beginnings than this." And even some worse betrayal that had come from beautiful beginnings and middles as well, but she nodded in agreement with his words.

[wolflord_andain]

"Observation window aside," Galadan acknowledges, "it certainly seems to fall to the milder side of any scale."