[ sometime after dusk has settled but before one might consider retiring for the night, Makoto might be gifted with the familiar itch at the fringes of his mind that indicates someone is reaching out. someone not of his sect, not of his legacy - a certain silver-haired Pleroma, and not the one he had left in a pile of ash and dust within Venera.
should he be kind enough to accept - maybe he'll feel, hear, the gentle wash of his "name" floating across the abyss of their link of Communion in a tentative greeting.
communion; an early june evening;
should he be kind enough to accept - maybe he'll feel, hear, the gentle wash of his "name" floating across the abyss of their link of Communion in a tentative greeting.
it feels... uneasy. ]
Mr. M...?