No time for games
"Prince Soren, eh?" Areen muses with a knowing glare, sharp teeth flashing with each word like the fangs of a piranha gnashing for more. "A long time going since I have seen that handsome devil," she laughs wickedly to herself, spinning her finger in a whirlpool motion as wisps of swirling white magic spiral from its point.
The pearly shimmers of magic spin through the water in a flurry of snow like shards, forming shape and pose into a blurry cognition, until it at last condenses into something tangible- a shape so familiar that for a moment, I find myself captivated. The illusion flickers around the room, humming gently under its breath, springing up among merfolk and around hordes of darting fish, dancing and waltzing its way around the court with practised elegance. Such detail there is to this illusion that it appears almost like a memory, or some hazy vision, finetuned and carved out with the loving fondness of its creator.