Seignur Veeoni
It was a lofty and spacious chamber, slightly smaller than the room Tocohl had chosen for the new core. The light, when it came up, was a warm yellow, and the floor was resilient and soft.
Mosaics crashed across the back wall from floor to ceiling, in waves of dark blue, pale green, gold and white. Before it, was a small, raised dais, the mosaic reflected on its gleaming surface.
Seignur Veeoni frowned.
“This is…an art installation?” M Traven’s voice was soft, as if she recognized the chamber as something beyond the everyday.
“In a manner of speaking,” Seignur Veeoni said. She turned toward the door.
After a moment, M Traven followed her.