Llewellyn is pulling his stuff together in his room. Somewhere behind him, he hears a whisper, clear as day but unintelligible. He spins around on the ball of his foot, brandishing his knife -- there, a wisp of green-gray fog curling back up through a vent; it's out of sight. Bewildered, he turns about. Nothing, even out of his window, looks wrong. He dismisses it as residual from the head impact earlier and reenters the common area. "[color=746363]Ready![/color]"