"Shit," He breathes. Believes her, even before he's begun the count; skeletal helm shoved above a mouthful of numbers,

No point. So many of them gone, it'd take a mirror hall not to spy it. Nearly there, on all these strange marks, shadows, colours. The Crossroads, Strange had agreed. It looked like the Crossroads.

This isn't the Crossroads.

"Spat them somewhere," Or us, he doesn't add, not when the sound already jangles in his teeth. Light refracts in odd geometry, slick from the puddle of — ah — "Y'got Blight on your boots."

He'll just stay back here.