⟬ A half-bell later... ⟭
Tycondrius laid face down on a couch in Chantal's personal quarters.
He was familiar with the Fleet Admiral's sense of style, having once visited her office in the Darktide Fortress.
It was hideous-- replete with... knick-knacks, storied items looted from treasure troves, and chunks of wood with plaques undoubtedly taken from ships Chantal personally damned to the deep abyss.
There was really no logical sense to most of it. The longer he looked, the more intense a numb sensation at the forefront of his brain.
But thankfully, serendipity struck, and Tycon realized he just had to close his eyes.
--and then it actually became quite nice.
The various smells in the room calmed his nerves... gentle... and old.
A faint incense clinging to the fabric of the couch.
A swash of a strong spirit to hide the stale mildew scent on an old oaken armoire.
The sweet, musty scent of a personal library...
