As Jon-A-Thing looked up the light filtered and shifted down in glittery swirls. This is more literal than otherwise since light tended to act far more as a particle than a wave to those that travelled on one of the great Slows. It bothered some of the passengers, but while the rich could be choosers it was sometimes beneath them and bad form. Besides there was always a party down below in the suffling hands.
Jon-A-Thing was not interested in parties. It is true he was dressed with the sheen of well honed style that caught the eye short of being garish. It is true he carries in one hand a fluted glass cone filled with the latest thing to drink. It was selectively cool and sometimes as he sipped it was so cold as to make his tongue ache delightfully and his breath came out in a small cloud. These things though were a costume. He had no care for the high society down in the lower shuffling hands. What he cared for elsewhere.
So it was with care that he picked his way toward the Eye of the great Slow. She was there, as he knew she would be. She was looking from the eye into the great untraveled ways. Her hand lightly griped the rail lightly. She was almost absently petting the pitted metal surface as if it was a small pet. It was the closest thing Jon-A-Thing ever saw her demonstrated as a symptom of compassion.
Bravely then, did Jon-A-Thing walk quietly behind Madgna-Destroyer-of-Worlds. It was an old dance with them.