[It's common place for her to see vague, half or more removed in mind and maybe almost that in body, but in the moment Cathaway is inarguably present as a thin, staggered old woman with her gnarled fingers twitching at the Prince's forearms and her skin pulled tight and thin as paper.
She's very small like this, quiet as something dead even as a pulse of awareness rabbits along the edges of her mind.
Then the boneless qualities of her leak into the floor of the Bridge. She tenses under some personal pain - personal except for the parts that feed at the link between herself and the Prince anyway - and claws her way to consciousness.
It's a miserable place to be - agonizing and delightful in turns as the Station drinks in reality.]
It takes-- [She makes as to lever herself up onto her bony side in the shadow of the Prince's frame.] --effort to unmoor the Station. This will pass.
no subject
She's very small like this, quiet as something dead even as a pulse of awareness rabbits along the edges of her mind.
Then the boneless qualities of her leak into the floor of the Bridge. She tenses under some personal pain - personal except for the parts that feed at the link between herself and the Prince anyway - and claws her way to consciousness.
It's a miserable place to be - agonizing and delightful in turns as the Station drinks in reality.]
It takes-- [She makes as to lever herself up onto her bony side in the shadow of the Prince's frame.] --effort to unmoor the Station. This will pass.