A blinding flash. A thrum that reverberated deep into Griff's body, playing his bones like a mad percussionist. He wanted to shout, to scream, to do something or say anything. But his breath had been stolen, and his body was weightless. Though Griff had ever only been in water that went up to his chest, in that moment he likened it to swimming.

But as quick as the light had seized him, quicker was the landing. The pressure of hard ground against his body, limbs now sprawled out. Griff's eyes were closed, reflexively at first, but now he was too worried to open them.

He reached out to grab the knife. Pulled from his fingers in the swirling vacuum. Grass tickled and played at his open palm, but he found no grip on blade handle. Was it gone? He had paid good money for that carving knife. 

Griff gingerly opened his eyes. Nothing hurt, not presently, but he was reminded of waking up on cold mornings with a stiff neck. The kind of ache you didn't feel until you rose from bed. All that greeted him were slightly-swaying tendrils of bright green grass. His own breath cleared the slender leaves out from around his nostrils. Griff realized it wasn't especially windy, wherever he was, as a stark contrast to the dark beach trail. 

"No," the knot in his stomach was wrenched further in dull realization. 

It wasn't [i]dark[/i] either.

He sat up, back rigid as a plank and knees tucked beneath him. Griff rubbed at his eyes, swatted at his face--anything to make sure that this wasn't a dream. He looked up, and squinted through the mosaic of leaves as sunbeams lanced through far-off canopy. 

There were others around him--four in all. He recognized the head of hair that was bifurcated right down the middle. Strangers on the beach. They were all here with him? Wherever [i]here[/i] was, that is. Certainly no beach. 

He shifted again, and saw it. Several yards away was the rotund, clay-red body of a mote. Not his Mote. Or rather, not the Mote that had just reacted so strongly to the clatter of a blade against its carapace. Even if it had transmuted color and shape, jumped with them to this [i]elsewhere[/i], the symbols were different. Though the languid half-circles and spirals weren't a language that Griff recognized, he just knew that this was a different Mote. 

That cold feeling of dread settled in his gut. A shiver ran down his spine, despite the mild weather of this ossuary wood. 

"This is all wrong," he protested.