They're on a road, in some deserted woods. A heavy fog curls around the trees, blocking vision entirely in one direction. The road is worn down, ancient and cracked cobblestones barely visible under a layer of mud. A half-collapsed stacked stone fence appears to have lost the struggle to keep the forest from encroaching on the path, and weeds and grasses sprout up from between the heavy stones.

It's quiet and cold and damp, and Decima can't sense anybody at all except for herself and Tyrannissa. Except - the air itself has almost a feeling of power, swirling gently through the trees, faint enough that even a few months ago she wouldn't have felt it at all.

Well, she doesn't recognize this, and she doesn't like the hint of power hiding in that mist.

"Tyrannissa, if you could return us - "

(Really, teleporting the teleporter, how foolish.)

Tyrannissa inclines zir head, and zir butterfly daemon, Dolores, takes off from zir shoulder, spreading its wings.

Colors bleed out from it, twisting reality, rewriting their surroundings - 

And then snap back, with nothing changed.

Tyrannissa furrows zir brow, feels through Dolores (who dislikes talking), and says, "We can't. It's not there."

"- Is it too far, or did the town stop existing?"

A few more tests, and - "Either the world did, or we can't reach it. Nothing's there. Not even our warehouses." And not all of zir warehouses were stored in conventional space - this place isn't just far, it's cut off. 

"Well. That might be a problem." She furrows her brow, and looks around. "I doubt staying here will avail us of much; Maystadt is unlikely to send a rescue party, even if she could." She doesn't like the feel of those mists, but she likes the feel of being shepherded less, so she stubbornly turns and plows into the swirling fog, Tyrannissa a heartbeat behind her -

And finds herself leaving it, exactly where she left.

She freezes, asks her daemon, Moira, if he noticed them turning - he didn't -

"It moved things," Tyrannissa concludes, shifting zir form again. Ze feels agitated, like nothing's where it's supposed to be - not even in a fascinating way like an optical illusion, but like the world is cheating.

"Indeed it seems to have..." Deep breath in, and then out. "Well. If whoever is controlling this has such power... I suppose we should see where they want us to go, and if they would be so kind as to show themselves." So that Decima can introduce them to her knives.

"We don't like it," ze repeats, but subsides, and starts trying to focus to control the chaotic slide through zir styles.

Decima stalks forward like someone searching for the vital points on a forest.

Tyrannissa follows.

The forest winds, eventually passing imposing gates, flanked by enormous statues of a woman in armor - whose head has been removed. One of the gargantuan stone heads remains on the ground, face obscured but the outline of a crown still visible. The gates swing open as the two approach, rusty hinges screaming, and closed as they pass, shutting firmly behind them. The enclosing mist does not pursue them past the wall, though the road beyond remains damp and miserable.

Well, once ze gets over zir fuck no at the spatial manipulation, this world is rather wonderfully dedicated to its aesthetic. Perhaps ze won't use the creator's blood as paint. Remains to be seen if that is a good aesthetic.

Even Decima has trouble maintaining a proper murderous rage while stalking through apparently endless mud and gunk. It's more of a low simmer, now.

Eventually they approach a village, small by modern standards. Couldn't possibly be much more than a thousand people.

There's a manor house along the road, overgrown gardens spreading from its empty windows - two scared children, one boy, one girl, standing in front of it.

They whirl around when they see the two adults, and the eldest - a girl in a drab dress - cries, "You have to help! Our parents - " (Her brother, a little boy clutching a well-worn teddy bear, looks like he just finished a bout of crying).

Decima usually doesn't bother much with children. Not her type.

But there's something odd - 

They're not registering like humans to her senses.

They feel like the mists.

She tenses, flicks a knife dead center through the girl...

And the blade keeps going, embedding itself in the dirt.

The children both fade out, wisps unraveling.

Decima casts a sideways glance at the house.

"I wonder if that was a power, or something... Else." And indeed the house feels strange, more of a person itself than the ghostly children. Decima's curious, and is torn between investigating and continuing further into the village. (She wants to actually kill someone, not some pathetic mirage. This place is itching, crawling under her skin.)

"Maybe there's someone inside," ze says almost hopefully.

"Perhaps. I doubt the house will have gone anywhere while we explore the village, though. And if anyone lives in this godforsaken world they can explain what is wrong with the powers."

Tyrannissa nods, and follows Decima past the house and into the village proper.

The village is as thoroughly dedicated to the aesthetic as the rest of the region. Houses made of wood and old fashioned plaster with slate shingles loom out of the mists, leaning over the roads like trees bowed by the weight of years. Many of them seem abandoned, visible rot taking a few. The handful of people seem to have had the color - and the vitality - sucked out of them. Some turn to stare at the newcomers. Most don't. But a few - no more than a tenth - dress more brightly, as if whites and yellows and reds and baby blues can drive off the damp.

The shops have wooden signs out front, with images rather than words, and one shows the weathered image of a skeleton with a tankard. The original paint's long faded into a few chips, though someone seems to have painted the skull green and the tankard blue and the possibly-beer purple since. 

"How quaint," Decima mutters, and sweeps inside.

Whoever is in charge of decorating the inn seems to be doing their best to ignore the fact that they live in a horror movie - or perhaps poke fun at it, given the painted scenes of skeletons in bright fancy dress getting drunk. The lintel's carved with wolves someone painted pink, chasing blue deer through yellow trees. The fire is blazing in a long hearth.

A few of the drearier townsfolk are sitting at the bar, not talking as the barkeep mechanically cleans spotless glasses. It's hard to notice them over the crowd around a table near the fire, who seem to be gambling for pebbles, laughing. There's a man in an almost glowingly white shirt sat in a corner, watching the gambling table as he taps his forearm, seeming caught in his own dark thoughts. Someone's playing an odd drone instrument off on the other side of the room, sitting with two others and laughing whenever she misses a note, which is often.

She'll approach the barkeep, then.

"Welcome to the Drunken Skeleton," he says. His voice at least sounds normal. "Rooms are two silver a night for a double, three for a single, and an extra silver for a bath."

"Where is this?" she'll ask, voice restrained and carefully not sharp.