There's a shadow stalking Diarmuid this day. It leaps on silent feet from wall to wall, rounds corners and trails his every step. It hangs off chandeliers, resting off the edge of one and peering at the man through that vague, almost translucent sort of image—through its magical guise.
An ordinary individual could not see it, but an extraordinary Servant certainly can sense something amiss. It seems less like it's trying to hide and more like it's trying to play, sinewy in its its movements and graceful even from behind its enchanted cloak.
And if Diarmuid looks carefully enough, he may even spy it grinning, inexplicably. But only for a moment. It wants to gauge his notice, draw his attention.]
early january; inside the halls of caer glaem
There's a shadow stalking Diarmuid this day. It leaps on silent feet from wall to wall, rounds corners and trails his every step. It hangs off chandeliers, resting off the edge of one and peering at the man through that vague, almost translucent sort of image—through its magical guise.
An ordinary individual could not see it, but an extraordinary Servant certainly can sense something amiss. It seems less like it's trying to hide and more like it's trying to play, sinewy in its its movements and graceful even from behind its enchanted cloak.
And if Diarmuid looks carefully enough, he may even spy it grinning, inexplicably. But only for a moment. It wants to gauge his notice, draw his attention.]