Hugs are so good. "Are there more to test?"

"Two strangers also came. One does fascination, causing something other than her to become incredibly attention-grabbing while she's around, to the point where people neglect her or anything she does, and the other cannot long-term affect the world or be long-term affected by it."

"...that sounds depressing. Yeah, sure, I'll meet them too."

He floats out of the room, and returns with a woman in a very discreet black suit with boots and soft grey lines, and a cloth mask with silver markings for her eyes and lips.

"This is Glare," Legend says...

...and my that's a really nice chair, isn't it?

Fascinating. Not pretty, but he can probably learn something about this era's manufacturing processes by staring at it.

Yes, it sure contains a lot of knowledge if he can just learn how to read it—

—Glare taps him on the shoulder and she's standing with her face really close to Fëanáro's.

Yipes now she's across the room wow eeek.

The mask covers her whole head but she's definitely smiling. "That's a useful power," she says. "We're short on teleporters, good to have one."

"Thanks. Sorry. You scared me."

"It's alright. I think that's a 'no,' then? Not immune to my power, that is."

"No," agrees Legend. "We'd already determined he wasn't immune to mind powers, though, so this was to be expected."

"Thanks!"

"Seeya!" Wow what an interesting chair and she's gone.

Legend laughs, shaking his head. "She likes to do that. I'll bring Gasconade, now."

"Okay!"

He floats away, and returns with... a very peculiar man. He's blond, and looks very ordinary, except for the fact that every part of his body that isn't covered by his costume looks like a complex arrangement of two-dimensional images, like pictures drawn on paper and interlocked, overlapping, to create a general silhouette of a person, fragmented throughout. He doesn't wear a mask, but he has a costume that continues on the mosaic-like theme, to the point where it's somewhat confusing where costume ends and skin begins.

He bows.

"Hi. ...weird."

He raises an eyebrow and gestures at Fëanáro's wings. "Should say the same."

"They really fly. And they sort of work for hugs if there's no one huggable around. I like them a lot."

"Well, some of us are less lucky than others. Can I pick you up for a second?"

"Sure!"

So he does, walks a couple of steps, then puts him down again.

Fëanáro feels... strange. Almost tingly, except it's not quite a physical sensation.

He spreads his wings and tries to shake it off, sort of.

Doesn't work. "I can't affect the world, and the world can't affect me," Gasconade explains. "If I get shot and I die, I get better. If I shoot someone and they die, they get better. If I write something, it disappears. If I make something, it's unmade. If I get a haircut, my hair grows back. And if I pick you up and put you somewhere else..."

Pop, back where he started. 

"...that sounds kind of depressing."

"It is, a bit. I can't really lead a normal life," he says, cheerfully. "Thirty seconds, approximately, is as long as things I do stay done. On the bright side, I'll never screw up too badly."

"...I guess that makes sense. People can remember you normally?"