They noticed the raven first.
“Is that your work?”
“Could be – I did throw in some background birds.”
“Well, it’s staring at us. Projection?”
“Odd, but possible.”
“Project this!” The bird squawks before it flies away. “Bloody tourists. You’re lucky the old Lord’s gone!”
When they see it again, it is seated on the shoulder of a young man, robed in white, with white hair. In his eyes shines the promise of a thousand passing stars. They cannot recall how they have come before him. He speaks.
“Go and tell your kind – I will stand no more for these intrusions.”