She breaks the telecom link and stands. A quick rush of padding footsteps and a soft cry like a sob give her warning. Her mother seizes her arm, snares her waist, clenches and clings. Frantic to see and frantic to hold. To make sure she is unhurt. For she is yet a child, in her mother's gaze. A child raised and loved like the flesh of one's own flesh. That she has grown tall and slim as only a meta may grow, as only elves ever grow, matters not. An elven child, yes, but no child of elves.