Fergus Finlay was the boy who would be seen causing trouble around Midtown High, walking around with his pack of cards and wit to save him from trouble. However, he was in for a rude wake-up call; history was awakening, and it had set its eyes on Fe...
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Fergus huffed, feeling oddly relaxed and cool. He had always been one to rather enjoy cooler temperature rather than blazing ones. He also felt relaxed, not feeling the knots in his shoulder muscles that often came with tension.
He flopped on his back, hands spread out on the soft sheets as he suddenly froze, his eyes flying open when he realized he was, in fact, not tied up, not being strapped to any tables for white-coats and no one was currently holding a knife to his throat.
The first thing he noticed was the high ceiling, it was golden and looked like something out of his art book, tiny swirls and robust paintings took under themselves the whole ceiling.
The second thing, was that he was not wearing his clothes and his chest was bare. He pushed himself on his elbows, eyes sliding over the room that looked like something that would be seen in an exquisite mansion. His bed was big enough for four people and there was a large bearskin thrown over his lower body, underneath the skin was a white coloured, soft blanket. The sheets smelt fresh and felt cool and clean. His hair, he noticed, was a mess and he vowed to get it cut soon.
He sat up, gently sliding his legs off the bed as he scrunched up his nose, realizing with irritation that someone had changed his pants. He had never seen pants like these, they were greyish in colour and were so light against his skin. There were two windows that seemed to be hidden behind thick, golden and red curtains. There was another skin on the polished mahogany floor, but Fergus could not identify what poor animal it had been. There was a large closet, a mirror that had lots of swirling wines decorate around it and a fireplace that had some embers softly burning in it.
Wherever he was, he knew it was not prison. And it was too... Old-fashioned to be Tony Starks tower. The opening of the door stilled him and made his green eyes snap towards the door. A tiny woman walked in, eyes casted down and carrying a tray with her. She quietly made her way across the room, placing the tray on a table that was near the fireplace. Fergus cocked his head, confusion lacing his features as he looked at the clothes the woman was wearing, they seemed horribly old fashioned and odd. "Excuse me, where am I?" he asked, startling the woman so that the tiny jug she had been holding crashed onto the ground and the inside of it flew over the mahogany floor, some of it sweeping into the animal skin rug on the floor. The woman's tiny hand flew up to her chest, startled eyes finally taking in the tall form sitting on the bed, fully conscious.
She gasped, turning in the balls of her feet and scurrying out of the room. "Wait!" Fergus held out his hand, but the door was slammed shut and the woman with abnormally large and pointy ears was gone. Fergus, stumbling slightly, threw himself onto the floor, realising it was locked.
However, the warmth that immediately touched his senses made him step back. He knew it wasn't locked by technology or simple lock and key.
Stunned, he sat back down, staring at the door with wide eyes. It was magic, and he didn't understand how he couldn't tell earlier. It reeked of soil and burnt sugar, it tickled his nose. That's how obvious it was, and the way he could almost see the air over the door shimmering.
