Medusalith was in a mood. The sort of mood that, back in Attilan, would have resulted in everyone treading very cautiously around her and her mother suggesting that perhaps she should go visit Blackagar, the subtext being 'before you start tossing breakables and/or make a servant cry.' She suspected it was attributable to the amount of kissing that had happened recently, and her realization that if she wanted things to happen without horrible death and property damage, she might have to resign herself to losing the use of her hair for the duration. That was just depressing. She'd sooner cut off an arm. On the other hand...well, yes. On the other hand.

This was a problem that would require some thought.

She was in no state of mind whatsoever to think about art, and her hair was kind of...unfortunately twitchy, but she was here.