Who: Elia Rousseau, Dean Armstrong What: Handling. When: Monday night. Where: A dark hallway close-ish to Elia's room. Rating: Lowish?
It was late, very late. Somewhere, vaguely, Elia knew that. She knew that she ought to be in bed, that Marcus would be missing her warmth at his side, that she had strayed beyond where she should have for the night. But the reasonable part of her that would have gone back to their room was unavailable.
Instead there was the part that responded to the way the darkness whispered to her. It called and beckoned, and Elia let it carry her along with it on bare feet. To an outsider, of course, it would look much different – they couldn't see the shadows curling outward, writhing for her attention... although everything did seem to darken a little more where she passed. And they didn't hear what she was responding to, just Elia's soft voice, murmuring answers to questions that no one seemed to be asking.