Mallaidh
The man oozed charisma like an exotic frog seeped poison. Mallaidh was, however, placated by the gesture, and was even glad of it, feeling her confidence grow more than was wise.
She followed the two, noticing how the cyclops woman seemed to be judging her. For her part, Mallaidh kept her face carefully blank, not wanting Rozalind to read her; that sort of knowledge was twice as valuable as even the finest steel, and thrice as dangerous.
However, the shifting of the whole room made her stumble, as it caught her by surprise, but not as much as when she saw the portholes, and what was outside them. They were underwater! Truly, magic was far different, but no less awesome than Mallaidh had expected. She marvelled as they passed an eight-armed beast, tiny eyes below a swollen head. She’d never seen an octopus before. Its body was fluid and flowing and it propelled itself along. It never occurred to question how they themselves were moving; the answer was simple to Mallaidh: magic.
Too soon, they came to a halt, and it was time to come away from the window into the vastness of the deep blue, but that took great effort for Mallaidh to pull herself away from such beauty, previously unknown.
The room they entered next was larger, and much busier. It was all quite intimidating, so much so that Mallaidh found herself accepting another coffee, despite having nearly vomited from it before. This time, however, she doubted she could spit it back into the cup, as the room had too many eyes. She puffed out her chest and downed the hot liquid when it was given to her, as she would a flagon of ale, supressing the grimace with all her might.
She grinned manically, mainly at Twain, but also cast it across the room, and placed the empty vessel upon the table.
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Herbert
The deafening lack of sound seemed to wake Herbert. He was on his back. He saw the night sky, a total black, completely starless, and the face of the moon was missing in all its lustre. The whole world seemed muted; everything was grey, as though the night, rather than gifting a sombre blue-caste, had drained the colour away. The blades of grass were glassy and ashen, the type you could cut yourself on, and reeds rose around like colossal skeletal fingers, a hand reaching upwards for the heavens.
Once he had pushed himself into a sitting position, he then, with protest from his knees and back, pain that screamed only dully and far off, much more conscious than subconscious, a placebo as opposed to a reality, got to his feet. He looked around. From horizon to horizon, the abysm of the void sky yawned. The land was incredibly flat, but there appeared to be grey wisps in the distance, more substantial than grass or emaciated reeds. A river ran underneath the sky, with no beginning or end in sight, a winding, infinite snake of black, with silver strands flashing through it, like bolts of liquid mercury. It was huge but deathly silent.
“I did not expect you back so soon.”
Herbert felt himself jump, but the sensation was hushed and removed; like everything else.
A figure was standing ankle-deep in the slow, shallow waters near the bank. Herbert formed the impression it was woman, though this thought was alien and not his own. She was made of shadows, she was made of rags, she was dressed in fine silks, and she was not there at all. Herbert did not struggle to comprehend this; again, the confusion and nausea of the contradictory realities did not reach his forefront of awareness. The dim tinge of recognition swelled in his brain, but the grogginess and un-clarity meant he could pin no time, place or name to her.
She smiled. Well, one of her smiled; the amalgam of planes managed to instil no small measure of fear, without being immediately apparent as to why.
“It’s not your time yet.”
A thousand questions. All would go unasked, for now, by the leaden tongue. She looked off, far into the abyss.
“I would not recommend sleeping again for a while. The divide has thinned and your being is in flux.”
He managed a slow step, as though he were moving through treacle. She halted him with a stare, a snarl, a smile, nothing.
“The Living are waiting for you. Go to them.”
A command he followed.
Voices swam in Herbert’s skull as he came to. He must have somehow slipped off, despite his fear. Truly, he was exhausted then.
There was a hive of activity, down the hall; the voices and smells reached him: coffee and tea, and sweet pastries and cakes. His stomach growled, demanding he go and eat, or it would induce an awful pain in his gut. Herbert abided. He threw back the sheets and hobbled on his ill-rested legs, stifling a yawn, but oddly, he did not feel like sleeping.
He staggered into the room with the table, and took a moment to observe the congregation. Gears were set in motion as the engine in his head began firing on all cylinders, piecing together the machination and working towards realisation. Soon, he would no longer be able to hide from reality.
For now, he was hungry enough that he could. He took a crescent of a buttery bread-like substance from the young man, and began appeasing his restless stomach.
