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Ambrose’s eyes fell on the man that approached them. He stated, simply, a sentence that Ambrose couldn’t glean heads or tails of. “Oh boy, none of those words are in the Bible.” Then the man, Eckhart if to be surmised, started to walk away. Ambrose felt the draw to follow him as everyone else did. Maybe it was the lemming part of his brain. 

Weasel spoke to him, and he shot an odd glance at the now-large-ape-boy. Yet, his skepticism wasn’t wasted on Ambrose’s ears. He nodded along. “Fair. I guess being transported to Narnia can call a truce on whatever beef was between us before.” Not that Ambrose knew what was. He just knew that Weasel disliked him, thoroughly, and it had caused Ambrose to respond in kind. His webbed fingers played with a rubber band that had shown up in his hand earlier. He had been overwhelmed by new senses to the point that he didn’t know who or what had deposited in his grasp—or if he had just materialized with it. He knew one thing; he was not about to put it in his hair. This was a lot of hair, and rubber bands were not kind to it. He’d dealt with having his cousins, when they were little, deciding to band his hair up as he was napping. It was such a traumatic experience removing them that Ambrose wished it on no one. So, he instead pocketed it—surprised and delighted that his pants had them.

Everyone walked along, probably too stunned by what was happening to really bring up what had happened before. Yet, it was all Ambrose could think about. He was glad that Freyja was alive and well, even if he was unsure if antlers would be the best for walking through doorways. Brown seemed fine. Rowan seemed to not pay him any attention. Audrey didn’t give him a mention either, but then again, she didn’t owe him that. None of them owed him attention. Instead, he just walked along, ruminating on the panic he’d had. He hadn’t dived directly into danger like Brown. Nope, he'd frozen like a coward. He’d lost his ability to breathe and fell to his knees. Ambrose did a check of his pockets again. It would be foolish to think his meds would have traveled with him. Then again, he also had gills—what could be conceptualized as breathing? He was starting to get a headache.

A mutter through the group about a song caught Ambrose’s attention. He hadn’t heard anything like that. Yet, when he stilled his mind, there it was. Freyja had mentioned a beautiful lady singing. Ambrose just heard a choir. So, afraid that his brain song was broken—he shrugged. “Sure.”

He then looked out at the landscape as they walked. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before that hadn’t been painted on the side of an 80s wizard van, and even then there were things that didn’t make sense. “Oh shit, those birds have four wings,” he muttered under his breath. “Birds don’t have four wings right?” he asked before sucking back the question. “Kidding, of course, they don’t.” He laughed, nervously. 

As they pushed into the city, people were passing like Moses had parted the seas themselves. A lot of Christian references today, Ambrose thought. Maybe he was just trying to remember where the dragons were in the Bible. He felt something pressed into his hand. When he glanced up, a woman with a large cat-like face bowed away. A smile on her long, sharp lips. He glanced at it. It was… a… something. It looked like a two-sided spoon trapped in a ring and tied to a ribbon. Ambrose jangled that around for a bit before narrowing his eyes at it. His attention was drawn to how Rowan seemed to be the pull of everyone’s attention. She disappeared for a second before coming back into the group. There was something cradled in her hand. In a hushed tone, she asked what it might be. “Looks like a moonstone to me,” Ambrose offered, remarking on the celestial visage carved into the rock. “Sorry, bad joke. I don’t know. I barely know what this is.” He jangled the weird spoon thing at the rest of them. 

“Am I supposed to wear it around my neck? Double up on the spoons? Is this a soup-based culture?” 
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