When she seems settled, he concentrates, the thin man in a nice suit bleeding away, while a marble-pale, silver-haired elfin lord, his sable breastplate chased with silver details and blazoned with a pair of crescent moons. His eyes are pools of darkness, speckled with the lights of a night sky, constellations that watch, in a face as distant and perfect as the moon.

"Be at peace, Verity Willis. No harm comes to you this day." He extends a hand, palm toward her, fingers spread, and something presses out from it. There's no show of lights, just a feeling--a breeze on a summer's night, after rain, when it's both warm and cool at once, and the air is fresh. It flows over and around and through, and it cannot possibly be there, or real--but it is.