[ She said she would come again, when the sun had risen. And whatever else Iezabel Sadonna has become, a liar she is not. The visitation is heralded by that distinct mindform, a nearly-static preservation of thought that mirrors her painstaking self-mummification. Upon closer examination, there is a certain layering to that mental structure, like a new edifice built on much older foundations. But both are rigid, both somber, together resembling more a carefully curated ruin than a space of active inhabitation
She's wearing her mask and gloves, less out of courtesy than a desire to go unnoticed while in this state. She's even gone so far as to weave a mnemonic misdirection about herself; weird as she may appear - though really, how much weirder is she than many of the other inhabitants of the camp - attention short of the properly questing tends to slide off of her. She leaves little impression beyond the sense that something has slipped by, a flicker caught in the corner of the eye, gone as soon as noticed, taken as a mistaken impression.
Unless, of course, you happen to be expecting her.
Ieza appears, a long shadow outside of Charles' ad hoc home, stooping to peer through eyeslits and tentflap. Short of her motions, the crunch of stone and squeak of mud under her boots, she's essentially silent. But her presence, a dense darkness crowned by a pale ovoid, is insistent. She looms, a swath of black in the bright midday sun. ]
A Visitation
She's wearing her mask and gloves, less out of courtesy than a desire to go unnoticed while in this state. She's even gone so far as to weave a mnemonic misdirection about herself; weird as she may appear - though really, how much weirder is she than many of the other inhabitants of the camp - attention short of the properly questing tends to slide off of her. She leaves little impression beyond the sense that something has slipped by, a flicker caught in the corner of the eye, gone as soon as noticed, taken as a mistaken impression.
Unless, of course, you happen to be expecting her.
Ieza appears, a long shadow outside of Charles' ad hoc home, stooping to peer through eyeslits and tentflap. Short of her motions, the crunch of stone and squeak of mud under her boots, she's essentially silent. But her presence, a dense darkness crowned by a pale ovoid, is insistent. She looms, a swath of black in the bright midday sun. ]