Could you simply change it without going back, and hang the masters? He wonders idly, Or would that defeat some of the purpose?

It'd feel weird. I might do it eventually anyway.

One of the ways is 'nobody can stop me', that's just weird here, while I know I would be stopped at home.

Eventually you will be stronger, and that will no longer be true, assuming you keep growing while you are here, he points out. 

Yup.

Robot's going to be Daisy. There aren't traditions about that but it feels right to do it together.

He hums, A flower? He asks, offering a second-hand image of the one the concept she sent brings to mind, its many petals fanning out and slowly turning from dark blue to pale violet. 

He turns her eyes to catch a glimpse of the her robot companion, just barely visible in the edge of her peripheral vision. 

Yeah. There's a poem, about persevering together through hardship.

Oh? He inquires. He did mention his love for poetry. 

I'll have to ask how she feels about sharing it. She probably won't know herself, right away.

Understanding, Of course, I should have realised. Poetry is often personal. 

The sun continues to set, and the sky goes from violet-tipped orange and pink, to indigo-tipped violet, to star-spangled night. They can't see the moons out of the window, though Stormsinger knows at least two will be in the sky, with the sun gone. He watches the stars for a time, and then reluctantly turns his attention fully to her consciousness. 

I... believe this has been enough, for now, he says, hesitant. 

It's not draining; we'll have plenty of time for it while I'm recovering.

She tries to share control, for a moment, as she takes it back; it doesn't really work, but he'll catch the intention of the hand-squeeze, anyway, and then she stretches and shifts, restoring blood flow to too-still muscles.

That sense of curling happiness, again, at the hand-squeeze. 

He settles back fully into his physical form, feeling... strange. He's not cold, he can't be in this form, and yet being unable to feel the innate heat of her body, and the warm air on her skin, leaves him feeling thus anyway.

I don't know if it'd make it better or worse, if we were to find someone to cuddle with. I'm picky about touch, but it's nice when it's nice.

He has no idea what that would be like. Probably even more overwhelming than just being is. 

If it happens, it happens? He offers, tentative, Someday I will have my own body, he is letting himself believe this more now, And will be able to find out either way. 

You'll like it, that's obvious. I'm just not sure if you'll like it more than you'll miss it, right now. We'll see what happens, I guess.

Agreement, underlined by gentle joy, trust in her assessment, and, of course, curiosity, We will. 

I'll keep an eye out, then - who matters at least as much as what and how, for this kind of thing.

Hm, sooner I get going the sooner I get back, I guess.

Agreement, to both sentiments. 

I will be here, he sends, wry. Working on his compositions, as usual. He's going to have to set aside the piece he was working on before to start a new composition, due to this experience. 

He's very good.

She brings DZ up to speed again - and confirms that the droid expects to be able to tell the difference between them by their body language, good - and then goes; her telepathic connection to the Blade fades out shortly after she leaves the building. (Not bad for half a day, she comments when she notices it starting to fade.) And then it's through the compound and over the wall; she pauses atop it to gesture reassuringly at the guards.

He sends his equally fond feelings once more as she leaves, and then turns inward.

The nearest guard waves back, acknowledging her passage. 

The body of the Illusion mage, Tania, lies some ten meters beyond the ruins of the enemy's brief attempt at fortifications. It's been out here for over a day, so it's not exactly in perfect condition. 

She has an anti-nausea effect, thank goodness; that and the telekinesis protect her from the worst of it. She ventures a little farther afield to pull down a tree for the pyre, and brings it and the body a little closer to the fort; better not to invite the enemy to interfere with this.

The Imperials either haven't noticed her quite yet, or have decided not to do anything about it. 

Some Cialin guards are watching her curiously, but they are also content to let her go about her business. They've already sent word to the General, so their duty in that area is complete.

She doesn't bother hiding what she's doing as she sets up the pyre between the remains of the bunker and the fort and lights it with a spark of the Force. She stays by it, and when the flames have properly caught, she takes down the effect deafening her; she can't sing, not really, but she can hum, at least, a dirge - if she's going to do this she's going to do it right, as well as she's able.

Solemnity spreads across the walls as they realise what she's doing. 

When she takes down the deafening effect to hum, she night notice some of them singing softly as well. Not the same song as the ones she knows, of course, but it's low and mournful all the same. 

That's - good. Nice. (Painful, but she knew that.)

It takes most of the night for the pyre to burn down; she stays with it, alternating between watching the stars and meditating.