Originally Posted by Erin"Sorry..." the changeling's antenna drooped, and her shoulders slumped, somehow making her look even smaller.
"You could take his shirt," she suggested. Or the armor he's wearing under his shirt, she thought.
Assuming the handcuffs are forthcoming, Whim cuffed the Russian to a bit of shadow, testing the bond. Then she emerged and closed the Ghost Gate.
"Here. Give me your hand." Cuchulainn said once Aleksander was gone, taking Rose by the hand. The grizzled man concentrated for a moment, and the Sin-Eater felt the flesh around the wound itch and then begin to run together, as though so much melted wax. It felt like it should hurt, and quite a bit at that. But at the most, it just... itched. It was with a queer, fluttery feeling that the healing finished, but at least Rose was no longer bleeding.
Originally Posted by CaelanThat's right. She wasn't a mindless zombie. She finally glanced to Rakesh's sharp eyes. "I'll be okay," she muttered. Sorry, Cae added silently.
Originally Posted by IlkinThen he looked back at Seventeen. "Can you or one of yours head off the police?" he asked, "They have no idea what is going on and will likely go insane if they try to get involved."
“Innocent girl involved in drug trouble, gotcha.” Whim made a face, which made her look rather younger than her years. The green-haired girl sighed. “Good luck. Try not to get killed.”
“Always, Whim.” Seventeen said with a strained laugh. The Guardian looked at the Museum of the Industrial Revolution, now turned to something altogether more alien. “See you in fifteen minutes.”
Schäfer's laboratory stank. The sharp tang of formaldehyde, the sickly-sweet smell of decaying flesh, the coppery smell of blood. It was a veritable stew of odors, haphazardly mixed in the memories of a long-dead mage, and then thrown out into the modern world to create this simulacrum of a laboratory.
It wasn't real. Not even in the sense of having once existed. The twisted corridors you passed through never existed in Geneva or anywhere outside of Schäfer's mechanical memory. You passed by things that were never made. Bottles and beakers with no openings, merely glass bubbles full of some noxiously-colored liquid. Operating tables with too many straps, too many knives and saws all stuffed into pockets on the side. Paradoxical windows that opened in the middle of the building, tiny and high above you, showing the snowy street of some Swiss winter centuries ago.
“It's like a house of mirrors.” Rakesh said after a moment, the werewolf tense as a coiled spring. “Reality deformed.”
“More irritatingly, corridors deformed as well.” Seventeen said airily, tapping his cane against the wood before pointing straight ahead. “But unless they've moved, the curio room would be down that corridor.”
“And Robert is below us.” Rakesh responded, looking at the wood as well. “Assuming there's even a modicum of congruence with the real museum, the stairs should be to the left of us. Where should we go first?”