Act I, Part IV: In which the players assemble
Oh Howie, you know I can’t tell you right now. It would take so very very long (for time moves so differently in the dreamlands) and our time is short. No Ash, please don’t cry…we need to move on now. You heard what Alistair said. Speaking of whom, has he come back yet? He and Ray were working on something, weren’t they? Oh, but I’m getting sidetracked. Let me continue then…
The scene is set: A lone man lies on a bed in the midst of a cube of pure color. He is a sickly pale, and shakes as if with cold. The walls drip and swirl around him…
The place had at one time been a Motel 7. Until the strange man stumbled in, asking for a room. The manager almost called the hospital, but then again…they had stranger types in here on a regular basis. So a few crumpled bills were exchanged for a cold brass key, and the stranger limped down the worn down faux-velvet carpet to his chambers. Drips of paint leak between his fingers, clutched to his side.
He does not know how he got here. One minute he was dead, his essence sucked away and his mortal form left a statue. And the next he was here, still wounded by a fight against an enemy he never got to know. He doesn't know how much more he can take…he had been in death’s clutches thrice, been revived thrice, and each time he just became so much more tired. His bones should still be lying under the barricade, but where was he now? What was Gavroche Gray now, but a lonely phantom wrapped in painted flesh?
His eyes rolled up into his head, and he collapsed onto the bed into a fevered sleep. His blood dripped onto the floor and began to run up the walls…as the hours ticked by, the motel was consumed by the ravenous abstract.
Gavroche Gray was tossed upon the waves of Outer Dreaming, restless, wakeful, yet unconscious. Two figures swam in his vision, cold hands reaching out of the mirrored liquid. (Or perhaps it was he who was drowning, and they reached to rescue him). And finally, when Gavroche was about to give up and sink forever, something gripped his wrist with a steely grasp, and he woke up. Dorian Gray stood over him. “Hello son. We have so much to discuss.”
And it was at this point that young Howard interjected, loudly yelling ‘Oh SNAP!’ in the midst of the poor teller-of-tales’ story. Ambrose and Amber shake their heads sadly at his inexcusable manners.
Howard…I appreciate your enthusiasm, but please remain quiet. There is a thing called ‘narrative flow’, and you are utterly ruining it. Well, I guess we’ll leave Gavroche and Dorian for the time being, that seems like a good stopping point for now. We HAVE been neglecting the good Persephone Gray, shall we see what she’s been up to?