Fernando Van-Quish glowered down at the lifeless owl lying at his feet, his newly restored mind racing to rebuild his splintered memories as it took its rightful place at the front of his time-fractured brain once more. “That voice? It couldn’t be.” Blood ran down his face and pooled on the pristine floor as he knelt to the examine the prone bird. “Argus?”
“That voice? It couldn’t be.”“Eeeew! Gross! Oh my God, there’s a dead bird! What’s happening?” Abigail Pansy was verging on hysterical, the spell that usually maintained her cold demeanour very much broken. Richard Pritchard, meanwhile, quietly sobbed and clutched at his swollen wrist.
“Sir,” he blubbed. “Your eye! It… it’s…” His voice trailed off as a wave of panic overwhelmed him. “What happened? Where am I?”
“OUT!” Van-Quish didn’t
