The oval faced woman stares up at Apollonia with frank astonishment, as if she'd open the door to be doused in a bucket of icy water. Her heartbeat picks up lightly, autonomic functions switching on to a latent readiness not quite spilling over into alarm, and the most interesting thing about that is that these simple, ordinary things will be as clear to Apollonia as they are in any other transparent human being.

There is no burning black void inside of the body in front of her that veils its inner workings. There's only one occupant of this form, and her astonishment is giving way to bewildered irritation.

"You're going to have to be more specific," she informs the stranger, "And approximately seventy five percent less antagonistic. My name isn't Mercymorn, I haven't the slightest idea who you are, and narrow down the 'he'."