Setting: Entrance Room, perhaps beyond
Time: About an hour after noon, day 4
Summary: Raistlin arrives, figures out he's not in Hope's End anymore, sits down to study his spellbook.
Warnings: Cranky mage is cranky and sarcastic. Bloodshed, violence, and burning zombies a distinct possibility.
It was just about an hour after noon when the golden-skinned young mage fell from nothingness to the floor, coughing like he would surely lose a lung. His robes were dusty, his hair a dirty white, the crystal of the staff he held glowing brightly. The first thing he did - had to do, really - was drink from his flask, the one which held the tisane that would soothe his throat, allow him to breathe again. It tasted even worse cold, but it got the job done.
Finally able to look around without seeing starbursts, Raistlin did so, and almost immediately came to the conclusion that, wherever the hell this was, it was NOT Hope's End, the temple of Paladine, or anyplace else on Krynn, unless some archmagus had summoned him. Doubtful, since they apparently had no use for him.
He forced himself to be calm, to study his surroundings. Furniture of an unfamiliar design, which was obviously old; walls that were far too regular to belong to any commoner. A wealthy lord, perhaps? Maybe. But as he looked, he took note of that furniture, those walls, and the way they resolutely refused to crumble away before his gaze. Unusual, when he could watch the mightiest of trees fall to dust in mere moments.
Finally deciding that there was nothing else for it, he called out hoarsely for Caramon, even for Scrounger, only to find that neither of them were in the room. He felt a chill deep inside, then firmly squashed it; obviously, he had been summoned while they, being useless, had not.
He refused to consider the alternative.
Making his way to a chair, not particularly caring that it was about to become just as dusty as himself, he settled in to study his spellbook. If he found himself in danger, it could mean the difference between life and death.