[Rimbaud]

Rimbaud, clearly looking unexpectedly youthful today, smiled pleasantly up at the brash newcomer and bade him sit at the table.

"Good Sir, let me show you something," he said softly.

Lulled by the blue-eyed Poet's low voice, Melichus leaned in closer, studying the Innkeeper's face. There was a faint scar just before Rimbaud's right temple, and a shadow of grey in the hair above, and Melichus revised his estimation of the man's years.

As he sat, he became aware of a slow paralysis creeping over him. Panic gripped him as he found he could not move his arms or legs. He tried to cry out, but the muscles in his face and neck were frozen. Breathing became impossible and the world stood still, except for the eyes. Looming in his vision, they swelled, piercing him, holding him captive, swirling oceans within pools within shadows of incomprehensible darkness.

Confusion and pain raged through his inert body and he felt his life-force ebbing away. All he could see was dazzling blue, blinding him, binding him.

All of a sudden, he was free and released. Rimbaud sat opposite him, sipping rather primly at a large flagon of ale. He seemed nondescript, his brown hair neatly and stylishly cut, his hands oddly well-tended for a barkeep. Melichus realised the croaking sound was his lungs sucking desperately on air. Wordlessly he stumbled from the table and lurched for the bar.

"Any further questions?" murmured Rimbaud, too quietly for any to hear.