But Mort didn't wake up to the familiar sights of his bedroom or the familiar sounds of Lanna or Lancelot come to greet him, no, the nightmare just stretched and stretched and followed him doggedly without end. He returned to the Lair a sopping, bloodied mess and could only somewhat see through the rain droplets accumulated on his glasses, but even so he managed to navigate the twisted hall until he was unable to see the portal any longer. And only then did Mort slump against the wall and vacantly stare down at himself.
Still wet. Still red-handed. Still guilty. And now sand was clinging to his shoes and pants. He had walked from one nightmare to the next, from the dismal Human World to the unnaturally distorted Lair. And, seemingly, he was alone.
And he was equal parts thankful and miserable for it.
He longed to go back to his room, curl up on his bed, and just lie there in his half-sleep until the aches went away, but his feet didn't budge at his command. So instead, Mort peeled off his coat and began to wring it through; already a few uncomfortable shocks had occurred about his body, so the sooner he got dry, the sooner he could begin to feel even a little better. And the sooner he could leave as well; the Lair gave him no comfort for all its welcoming curiosities, nor did most of its horsemen inhabitants.
Frowned upon by Amityville for their choice, dismissed as weak by their so-called allies in the Lost, and openly loathed by the Hunters: student Initiates had little place to call shelter. It left a sour taste in his mouth and a hollow feeling in his non-existent heart as he twisted one sleeve almost to the point of tearing. The more water he rid it of, the more blood seeped in its place form his hands.
Story of his life.
x_Nata_x
If there are derp parts, I wrote this late in the night 8D;