“Where… are the Oaken… Stairs!?” he demanded, almost snarled. The changelings merely stared at him. There was more shaking, a distant roar of grave death, another flash of blue fire illuminating some unfortunate street behind him he couldn’t see, but whose glow was felt as much as seen. The changelings ran. Handy stood there for a moment, dumbstruck, before he looked down at himself. Somehow, during his search of the city, he had neglected to make use of the plentiful water around him to clean the gunk off of him, so now he was covered head to toe in the ashes of a dead city, a pulsating gem hung about his neck, and rivulets of blood running down his face and arms from tiny cuts, creating a river network of red amidst the ashen grey stuck to his face. Smelling burning, he turned around to see parts of his robe had actually caught alight.