I just let my eyes blink in confusion for a few good seconds. Didn't realize my brain could make such bloody, brilliant excuses for dream logic. If only I would've been that wise to my parents before, maybe I could have gone out with the lads more often than be sat down marking checkbooks. I would have to be dreaming up those hypothetical mates as well.

Removing one arm from a pocket, I imagine it becoming the length and point of a switch, with the sturdiness of a dark wooden cane supporting a Victorian figure, and extend my pointer finger at Tryg the Nord, shaking. Again I feel a weight in raising my arm where a dream would erase it, or should I believe the loony, yet self contained proposition that this is an actual world? Regardless, there is no room for trust however many levels deep this inception goes. I counter in motion his advance, rounding about his side not wielding the sword, not replying until I cross around at right angles then further.

"Right, and the Queen will come on air any moment now, and explain why London or wherever in hell is covered by this damn fog. L-Look'ere, you can walk up to me all casual with steel to boot, but it's still every man for himself. You best stay in front and away from me, if you plan on cutting something or someone else. A-And if we happen to cross the line into Birmingham, I swear the mates I know there, they will give you a happy slapping to remember, if you dare focking mess with me Tommy R."

[@Rethel34]