Borusa groans; her shoulder hit the ground of the Dream with maximum impact. She imagines it broken, then stops herself before the pain tries to infuse her arm with little distracting cracks. She rolls off that shoulder, stands up. Brushes off. Then she rolls both shoulders and inhales through her dainty little nose, then out through her pouty childish mouth. She cracks her neck left, right.
“Well, dealing with Rassilon wasn’t too hard,” she says aloud, swallowing as she recalls the rancid smell of the Valeshard, a mixture of dead body and moldy towels, “at least you’re still…”
Her eyes stop moving before her mouth does, but even still, she doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.
The crystals are gone. The overgrowth-strewn lab is gone.
In their place is a grey floor, spotted and stained with old scars of paint and nameless dark splotches.
She scans the floor, the walls, columns, all the same. Dim lights. An empty lot with regular markings denoting cordoned spaces. A bunch of lines around a hole, really. Rather a bit Yijing.