Warsman's was a shape that he'd seen in his dreams but, in a way he couldn't place, there it had been tinged with a deep sort of sadness, loss almost. Maybe a loss more tangible than he had felt when Sir Lati- father had passed away years ago. Seeing him here, in the flesh and not a flickering after-image of sensation and colour, soothed him enough to ease the drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. Enough to take in his surroundings, at least.

Robin gave a short, horrified gasp and shoved the door open the rest of the way, scraping the floor's new thin, fleshy layer of fungi back in the process. Like skin peeling back to reveal dark, visceral muscle and beneath that the bone and... no, he had to focus. The sweat that had started to bead at the back of his neck rolled down his spine. Hysteria would serve no purpose but to disturb him further.

He took a breath and tried again. "What in God's name-"

No, I'm dreaming.

Russian. It was only now that his eyes moved back to his companion and he realised that his steps were unsteady, his voice trembling with fear and uncertainty. Robin took a tentative step forward, holding up both hands. "Warsman, this is real. I'm real."

Who was he trying to convince here? Warsman? More likely, himself.