She feels it before she sees them, the little ruffle at the edge of consciousness and then that feeling as if someone's standing quietly just behind your shoulder. Two someones. She deduces quickly that the temporal anomalousness of the place probably prevented her from noticing it before, and that still point with wings hadn't helped either.
–what are two Time Lords doing in this place; and more importantly, who? something familiar about their imprint, but it could be anyone, and there's almost no good scenario. oh by the Pythia's dry c–
And there they are. The shorter one wears his air of authority as sleekly as his trim black suit. The taller one, a rail-thin, wild-haired stoat in a blue suit, seems perhaps a little less sure of himself, but even so, there's no mistaking that solidity, that supreme self-confidence that marks almost every Time Lord of any accomplishment at all. They both have that in spades.
The fact that they're both wearing human clothes—Earth clothes—is something of a relief. She'd have been much more alarmed if they were in those damn stupid robes, or any kind of usual Gallifreyan garb, for that matter.
She draws herself up as they approach, spine straight, hands on hips. The question takes her entirely by surprise, but she doesn't show it.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-02-01 01:30 pm (UTC)–what are two Time Lords doing in this place; and more importantly, who? something familiar about their imprint, but it could be anyone, and there's almost no good scenario. oh by the Pythia's dry c–
And there they are. The shorter one wears his air of authority as sleekly as his trim black suit. The taller one, a rail-thin, wild-haired stoat in a blue suit, seems perhaps a little less sure of himself, but even so, there's no mistaking that solidity, that supreme self-confidence that marks almost every Time Lord of any accomplishment at all. They both have that in spades.
The fact that they're both wearing human clothes—Earth clothes—is something of a relief. She'd have been much more alarmed if they were in those damn stupid robes, or any kind of usual Gallifreyan garb, for that matter.
She draws herself up as they approach, spine straight, hands on hips. The question takes her entirely by surprise, but she doesn't show it.
"To do what? And who are you?"