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You come to with a jolt on the floor. You lift your head groggily, rail spikes pounding into your head with each breath. You try to shake the sensation off as a voice cuts through the haze of pain.
“The good news is you didn’t fry my brain.” Sigrid sits atop a bunk before you, eyes low. “The bad news is that I wish you had.”
You begin to take stock of your surroundings as you reorient. The room is redolent with the smell of ink and bullywug acid. You see oaken panels flooring the ground, a domed ceiling yawning above you. The room is messy: stacks of papers and half-empty bottles lining the shelves and floors, books spilling over themselves from off the shelves, the mattress hanging like a fat white tongue off the nook. You find your eyes drawn to the colorful tapestries lining the wall, lit up with posters of various witches and wizards, flyers for capitol delis and restaurants, school assignments..
“Ahh–..ahh!” Your face lights up in recognition and delight. “We’re at St. August’s Conservatory! Ah..! I missed this place!”
“We are. This was my dorm room.” Your master looks.. different. Her last form had that kind of half-foot charm as they clumsily grow into themselves–eyes and ears a bit too big for themselves, almost rabbit-like–but she seems to have quickly outgrown it. Her hair is a matted mess, her eyes are lined with dark bags, and she exudes a kind of creepy greasiness. She reminds you a bit of a creepy lizardwoman stalker you had back at the conservatory, actually..
>Ask Sigrid about the memory.
>Take a moment to enjoy the conservatory setting. It’s been a while since you’ve been here.
>Ask Sigrid why she looks like that. Is the memory really that awful?
>Get to casting. You’ve got to hurry out of here!
>[Write-In.]
