<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><a class="postlink" href="https://creativefreedomrpg.com/viewtopic.php?f=6&amp;t=42390&amp;p=209208#p222835">Mandag</a></span></div><br/><div style="text-align: justify;">It was dark. Really dark. Mandag had forgotten it got like that up here. Even though she was not very cold, she automatically pulled her hands inside the sleeves of her light pink sweater and hugged herself. The January winds had subsided, thankfully, or she suspected she would have been blown away like ash. Or blown <span style="font-style: italic">out</span>, like a candle. She shuddered again, this time at the idea of disappearing. What happened to candles when they were snuffed out, anyway? Where did the flame go?<br/><br/>Busy with her thoughts of non-existent fire, the elverpige never noticed that the darkness a little way in front of her had become not so much the absence of light, as it was now more like a place where light outright disappeared. She did, however, notice the faint humming sound that crept through the air, and stopped mere inches before the strange patch of darkness. Could she go around? She tried, and succeeded. The humming darkness did not follow her. But Mandag was sick and tired of the endless, gravelly path, and really, it was just another black spot of a world in which she seemed to be the only thing that <span style="font-style: italic">wasn't</span>. Really, what could possibly happen? She tucked her long, silvery hair behind her ears and attempted to flatten her skirt. Maybe it lead nowhere, maybe it lead to a magnificent garden party. <span style="font-style: italic">You never know in this world; the narrative is always changing,</span> she thought as she took her last few steps on the gravel.<br/><br/>"...Well, it's not a <span style="font-style: italic">garden</span> party," she mumbled to herself, as the sound of her footsteps changed and everything flared into existence around her. <span style="font-style: italic">Maybe I was where the snuffed out candles go before, and now I'm where the lit ones are. Someone certainly got lit, that's for sure.</span><br/><br/>A variety of - people? - were standing around in the room. If the amount of guns present were any indication, most of them weren't feeling too relaxed about being here. Mandag had no such issue. This was not the first time she had been transported into a strange place. Especially two of those present seemed to be on edge. Mandag put on her friendliest smile - no teeth - and marched towards the pair of blondes she had spotted.<br/><br/>"Hello," she announced in a sing-song voice to the taller of them, who was currently pointing a gun of his own at - well, everyone. Mandag did not care in the least. Bullets couldn't harm her. "You don't seem too thrilled to be here. Are you all right?" she asked the girl hiding behind him. Abandoning the floor to hover a few inches above it instead, she peeked curiously down at her. "I don't think there's a reason to be afraid. Everything looks clean and comfortable, see?"</div><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: orange;background:orange;"/></div><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><a class="postlink" href="https://creativefreedomrpg.com/viewtopic.php?f=6&amp;t=42390&amp;p=209208#p259739">Jonathan</a></span></div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic">Well, ain't that a kick in the head.</span><br/><br/>Jonathan groaned as he picked himself up from the couch he had just fallen face-first into. The sight that greeted him made him wish he had been knocked out. Why were there so many guns? Where the Hell was this?! A minute ago, he had been standing in front of his grubby mirror as he did every morning, trying not to cut himself on the razor (as he did every morning). Then, poof, like something out of that story his mother had once told his sister, he had been sucked <span style="font-style: italic">through the damn mirror</span> and been unceremoniously dumped on his face, shaving cream, blood, baggy eyes and all - and in a place he had no idea how to describe except as "odd". Everything was white and strange and <span style="font-style: italic">oh, dear God, where am I?!</span><br/><br/>His heart pounded away as he grabbed the nearest pillow and wiped the remnants of his morning shave away. It stung a bit when it rubbed over the tiny cut on his cheek. Vividly aware that he was almost half-naked on account of it having been early morning in Los Angeles, Jonathan looked around the room to see if he would be lucky enough to not be the only one. To his outrage, he wasn't, but the only one who looked as if they might technically be wearing less clothes than him was a <span style="font-style: italic">woman</span>. She had bright red skin, too, but that seemed less important than her indecency. When did pants get that short?!<br/><br/>With slow, deliberate movements, as far too many people were still waving guns around, Jonathan stood up and did the only thing that seemed reasonable - find the guy in charge. And in Jonathan's mind, that meant the suit. Even if this suit came with a bright red cape.<br/><br/>"Excuse me," he said once he'd reached him. "I don't mean to be rude, but would ya mind telling me what the <span style="font-style: italic">Hell</span> is going on here?!"</div>