It is a lot to think about. As Jedi, Malicos and Cal had felt similar to her sisters, but not. Similar to each other, but not. They're all alive, and so is magick. It's trees and mist and blood, in the living and the spirits, in the hearts of planets and stars. From what little she knows of the Force, it may be the same thing, but she can't say for certain.

Almost absently, she calls her magick, feeling it thrum in her hand, bright green ichor levitating the bolt over her palm. A second later, she lets it fall again, the ichor dissipating like a guttered flame as her fingers close around the bolt.

Cal's explanation tells her quite a bit about the Jedi and their aims—very noble, it seems, but she's still not really sure what to make of this attachment business, which is probably evidenced by the skeptical angle of her eyebrows.

"So you are not allowed attachments to your family," she says, her head angling curiously. "And friends? Lovers?"