A dilapidated cottage on the outskirts of town hardly looked as though it had any importance as a meeting place. An ancient looking woman hobbled through its creaking door, hunched over while swathed in layers of patchwork fabric.
'Complete with milky tan eyes, hair the color of ash, and liver spots dotting my hands.'
Elua's illusions transformed her into the visage of the mysterious sigil master crone. It had been a while since she had to use it, but with her Breacher level of spirit and wealth of experience… it was as simple as breathing.
A broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard stood waiting inside by a rickety table. His crisp uniform marked him as a member of the Saltfire Storm Alliance. Though she was *pretty* sure it wasn't the one she had negotiated with so long ago. His spirit rippled with 'impatience', but it was masked on his face as he turned her way.
"Ah, the hour grows late. I trust you've brought what we need?"
I'm just sitting here, waiting for the day that Qat will splat at the end of the El shaped hole she's been falling terminally through for so long.
I picture it sort of like a mirror in a mirror infinite depth thing... or since I'm using the term 'falling' - like the looping fall you can do from Dragon's Dogma!
More likely than splat, she'll just latch her spirit tendrils everywhere and be content floating stuck in the middle of it like a proper simping cultivator. Rather, she's kind of already been doing that.
On the business end, Elua finally prepares to erase the concept of the Crone and embrace a bit of fame. There will be more of that to come - and all of it will be so that it helps or reflects well on her husband-wife.
Which one of them is really the simp, here...