Words failed to find their way out of Herbert’s lips. He stood, still quite horrified, and tried to work some moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth. In certain corners of the room, where the lighting was strong enough, he could see features that were once human distended and warped into estranged and mangled abominations of ex-humanity. His mind dulled, and a wave of gooseflesh propagated to cover every inch of his body. As his vision swam, and darkness crept in at the edges, Herbert fixed his eyes upon the man who was speaking, forcing himself to stay upright as this nauseous storm threatened his consciousness. The words washed over him, none sticking. 

Until “Twain”. That registered. His mind jump-started again. There was a woman below who needed this man, Twain. He could focus on that; an objective, a problem with the solution right in front of him. 

There was talk of getting away from this place. A more-than-welcome suggestion. Herbert’s gaze fell onto the tapestries, studying them with passing interest, before his eyes flitted over the faces. Some he had already acquainted himself with, some were completely new, but all he knew were equally strange, alien to his reality.

Quickly, Herbert refocussed on Twain, coughing into his tremoring hands.

They were in Russia? He could not begin to think how he got there, but at least he knew, roughly, where it was, and therefore, once he found civilisation, how to get home. Home to Liza. Would she have just finished supper when he returned? No… no, he did not think she would have. She was dead. Herbert rubbed his brow, silently cursing the haziness in his mind. 

Once the group began filtering away, Herbert addressed Twain.

“Twain, there is a woman below, by the fire. She insisted upon getting to you. She is rather badly burnt,” he appraised the man, from head to toe; “do you have anything to treat her with? I was led to believe you were a better equipped doctor.”