WHO: Henry and Anne WHEN: Friday morning WHAT: Henry is out trying to figure out what in the world just happened, and he runs into Anne. Who is supposed to be dead. WHERE: The Park RATING: TBD, it could get nasty STATUS: Incomplete
Henry was unsure whether he was suffering the effects of insidious witchcraft, or whether he had simply gone mad. It was true that there had been a good deal of pressure on him lately, and it was true that he had not been sleeping well, but to have lost his grip on reality so completely spoke of something darker and more evil than a bout of insomnia. He had experienced those before, and yet had never found himself in such a place as this
By God, it was beyond anything he could even imagine! The hideous architecture, the speech of the people, the strange, almost blasphemous contraptions - machines? - that surrounded him on every corner and even in the insultingly modest house in which he had found himself. The bed was comfortable enough - so much so that he pressed on it several times, trying to discover with which fibre they had stuffed the mattress. It was difficult to tell, and the material was strange to him. But still, it was far more comfortable than even his bed at home.
Still, he rose, and dressed himself (where had the servants gone - he would have their heads) - and made his way out in to the other room, and eventually outside into the street...which was made of some strange hard grey material that looked almost like stone.
He frowned, his lack of understanding as to where he had found himself rousing his temper. It was not, of course, hard to rouse Henry's temper. Most emotions he had ended there, with the exception of the softer ones, which he showed only in small amounts, as a king should. He would not have his people think him too soft.
Walking slowly, and with a slight limp, in time he made his way to a park, where he sat on a bench to rest. It infuriated him, this injury that slowed him down, that made him weak in his prime. He was not old enough to be limping like an invalid, and being forced to show any weakness made him hot with fury.
He sat there for a few moments, watching the strangely dressed people with detatched boredom, when suddenly he happened to see someone who made his blood run cold. It was impossible! Phantasms did not walk the daylight hours!
"God defend us!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and clutching the cross he kept on his person. "Go back to hell, Demon!"