[b]Lucien![/b] You have a sixth sense for these sorts of things, honed after years of dodging unfortunate assignments and ducking blame. And you're absolutely confident that if you escape through the floorboards, there will be [i]shenanigans[/i]. Maybe even [i]hijinks[/i], which is the last thing we want around here. No, as long as you're here keeping Ailee reasonably behaved, you should be fine, and you'll walk out of this smelling of roses. That being said, the quickest way out is getting down in the fetal position, stuffing your ears soundly, and inviting Ailee to rant. You will be able to leave immediately, given that this place of residence will very quickly cease to be a residence, or indeed even a place. *** [b]Coleman![/b] There's a far-off rumble in the distance. A ripple runs through the placid waters. The Storm is heralding its imminence. In the Storm are stars unwatched and thunders devouring and rain which sleeks against the windows. The Storm takes the tracks and changes where they lead to, and shows those caught in it mysteries and prophecies, and its leavings are the sharp taste of petrichor and a sense of personal smallness in comparison to the vastness of the Heart, and occasionally lunacy. You'll be fine, probably, as long as you get going sharpish. Tell us about the barge, and how you mean to propel Sasha (and company) across the hungry waters. *** [b]Jackdaw![/b] The word is [i]scrutinize[/i]. The matron (her whiskers nearly dragging on the floor, her diminutive size suggesting she was once... perhaps a Felin, before her eyes became milky-white orbs and her lips scaled), scrutinizes Ailee, who's standing there looking like she's about to explode, with a thin strip of Lucien between her and doom for all. Then she takes her knotted driftwood stick and pokes it into Ailee's stomach. "You're a Rodine," she burbles, "but a [i]fool[/i] one. The King only brings ruin and fire, child. Our lady might be able to wash it away, if you want... but I'm too old to make choices for children. Either ask to learn her mysteries or leave as sharpish as you can. We don't want you anywhere near us when you burn." *** [b]Ailee![/b] The stupid, paranoid, superstitious fish-creatures crowd behind the stupid old woman poking you with a stick as she lectures you about power, as if you aren't Ailee Sundish. Please, please, [i]please[/i] tell her exactly who you are, what choice you made, who's in control, and why you are not doomed to a fiery and cruelly ironic demise in the depths of the Heart.