Xeha's smiling, now: he checks between the blade, Braig, and his readouts with evident pride beginning to show. This is real. It's happening.
(And no-one's been hurt, he quietly thinks, before dismissing the thought.)
The light and dark pulses over the blade are becoming smoother still, blending into each other, making the blade itself look almost liquid: what has he made here? he wonders. Is it truly a keyblade of the light - and he's finding himself willing to use the word, now - one of the dark, something else, given whose influence was in its creation?
The chain, though: he's a little concerned, there. It doesn't seem to be settling down as easily. "Are we missing something?"
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Xeha's smiling, now: he checks between the blade, Braig, and his readouts with evident pride beginning to show. This is real. It's happening.
(And no-one's been hurt, he quietly thinks, before dismissing the thought.)
The light and dark pulses over the blade are becoming smoother still, blending into each other, making the blade itself look almost liquid: what has he made here? he wonders. Is it truly a keyblade of the light - and he's finding himself willing to use the word, now - one of the dark, something else, given whose influence was in its creation?
The chain, though: he's a little concerned, there. It doesn't seem to be settling down as easily. "Are we missing something?"