Cersie was already drifting off into the blissful unconsciousness that followed in the wake of his blood loss. He looped an arm around the back of Iseulith's neck, his eyes closed and head resting on the vampire's shoulder as they were brought into the mystical, enchanted forest and realm. Sleep had wrapped itself around him, and he remained oblivious to his words, his thoughts. Iseulith was left to leave as the sun broke over the outside horizon, leaving Cersie in the perpetual, unending darkness of the forest. It was cool, pleasantly so. Nothing disturbed Cersie's rest, not the birds or the flowing water. Almost the entire day went by with Cersie nestled in the moss, tucked under one of the gorgeous trees with its sprawling vines and magical imagery around him.<br/><br/>Such was the case when he woke up. The first thing he noticed was the breeze in the air, and he pulled it around him like a cloak. He felt groggy, displaced, in such a way that his surroundings threw him off guard. He realized he was naked, and almost wondered if his encounter with the vampire had just been some odd dream. Yet, as he took in his surroundings, he knew that couldn't be the case. This type of forest didn't remotely feel realistic. Not in his mind. Closing his eyes, he pulled on the turbulence in the air, only to find none. It made him get to his feet quickly. He'd healed well, though the other hadn't actually drained him to the point of unconsciousness. The dirt and moss felt alarmingly real, though, and it actually unnerved him. He pressed his palms against the trunk of a tree, and that, too, felt so real.<br/><br/>None of this made sense. The stars in the sky sparkled, and the breeze. The breeze though was fake. He nearly tripped over the roots flowing through the ground, and he had to brace himself as he tried to gather his wits about him. He didn't want to be here. This wasn't right. Cersie began to walk towards what looked to be the edge of the forest, but as soon as he stepped over that edge, he was back to where he'd been moments before. "No," he whispered, the color (what color their was) draining out of his face. A loop. He'd heard of them before. Cersie kept himself informed of magic, but seldom dealt with it beyond his own turbulence and energy. Energy he couldn't grasp at his fingers. Sure the place was beautiful, but it was place suspended in time, neither here nor there.<br/><br/>That's when he saw the door. A door in a tree. That made his suspicions a reality, and he burst through the doorway. The door slammed shut behind him, and he was back in the foyer from the night before. The memories came rushing back from the night before, so violent and vivid that he sat down on the chaise lounge with a thud. There was the front door, but he need to gather his wit. And he needed clothes, but he found there were none. His were gone, and beyond a door on either end he had no idea of any others in the foyer. His eyes lifted, storms brewing in them, to stare at the artwork on the walls and the scorch marks. Nudity really shouldn't be even a concern for him. As soon as he got outside he could evaporate his being into the atmosphere before anyone had any hope of seeing him. Once he'd regained some sense of himself, he took a slow, deep breath.<br/><br/>Claustrophobia was a very real thing for him, and he wasn't under Iseulith's influence anymore. He'd have to remind himself not to look him in the eyes. It wasn't a good idea, not when he felt like that was how he'd ended up in this situation in the first place. What scared him though was the all-too-real possibility that was trapped here. Slowly, trembling, he moved to the door and tried to open it. It was locked, dead bolted even. No matter how hard he tried, how hard he fought the door, it wouldn't budge. Of course it wouldn't. He was in the house of a vampire who was far fucking older than he was. He likely had the means of keeping anything in, or out for that matter. Cersie tried though. He conjured currents in his veins and shocked the door, trying to undo the magic there, but it wasn't possible. He was only three centuries old and he had<i>nothing </i>on the other.<br/><br/>To avoid the consuming hysteria, Cersie rushed back out into the faux-forest. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, his heart lurching in his throat. It was better than the enclosed space of the foyer, even if it was just a well-painted illusion. Cersie closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. Exhaustion hit him in waves and his legs gave out, sending him onto his rear in the 'dirt'...if it was even dirt. He smelled of sex and blood and earth and he wanted to bath, but he had no idea where a bathtub was even in this place. Regardless he was freaking out too much to think beyond the fact that he was trapped. No escape. Imprisoned, like before. Only different. Or was it? It felt more like a gilded cage. He buried his head in his hands and lost track of time.