Hold out your hand - Turbatio Void

"Aldra!" The name was gasped sharply in surprise and followed by an accusatory stare that was more dismayed than it was angry. "What are you doing?! That's got to be out for delivery this afternoon, I don't have time to-"

"Just shush." Aldra didn't bother looking to his uncle as he hovered over a sheet of freshly cut pastries, glazed with honey and topped with a speckling of spices. Just as with Brook's voice, his words were delivered in a quieted tone to avoid attracting the attention of the bakery's matriarch, though he didn't take the time to look over his shoulder to make sure Pemiri hadn't reentered the room. "This is going to revolutionize things. -Trust- me."

Hunched beside his nephew as he was, watching helplessly as a few strands of gray fur sunk firmly into the honey, Brook quietly agonized over the lecture they'd both be getting. And the extra hours he'd need to work mixing, baking, cutting, and topping a new batch of pastries for their client.

Aldra raised a hand above the sheet - a hand that was distinctly bereft of the glove it should have had on, which would have prevented the fur from falling into the glaze in the first place - and began to wiggle his fingers.

Pembrook's ears laced back in defeat, then perked forward as he considered the option of salvaging the unsoiled pastries. "C'mon Aldra, we really don't have time for this..." Maybe their client would be okay with a discount, for receiving less product? But as he reached for the tray to rescue what he could, Aldra slapped his hand away.

"Brookie, have faith." The younger firbolg's fingers went back to wiggling, while Brook was left with a growing knot in his stomach. Aldra settled his feet on the ground and adjusted his stance. The end of his long tail curled upward, and he sucked in a deep breath, "Okay, here we go... Parvamuta!"

Pembrook turned his face away subtly, dark eyes squinting just a little as his nephew uttered a phrase that sounded distinctly arcanic. Despite the flare and effort put into it though, and despite his bracing for the unexpected, the pastries and the bits of firbolg hair remained completely untouched. There was no flash of bright light or whoosh of wind, or whatever it was that Aldra's spell was suppose to do. Absolutely nothing had happened.

As Brook turned to look at his younger kin, his earlier expression morphing into something more akin to exasperation, Aldra wrinkled his face into a thoughtful frown, "Ahh.. well, shit. Did I say the word wrong? Maybe the somatics weren't quite right. Paramuta! Paromuta? Muto? Huh."

Brook let his head fall forward as he stared down at the sullied treats. "Maybe next time... we practice magic on leftover food?"

Aldra had now crossed his arms in front of him, "I figured the urgency of the situation would help the magic come about, you know?" He then shrugged and reached a still un-gloved hand for one of the ruined squares, removing it from the tray as a defeated Pembrook simply watched, "Ahh, don't worry. You've got, what, eighty of these things made? I only count like... two or three with hair in them. Buyer's not going to miss two or three." After plucking a strand of fur from the honey, Aldra popped the treat into his mouth, and grabbed a second square for Brook.

Brook stared for a second, before ultimately exhaling a frustrated chuckle and taking the pastry from his nephew. "We have to be honest with them." After removing two strands of hair from his portion, Brook likewise stuffed the honeyed treat into his mouth, "..b't... we d'n't 'ave to tell.. N'ma."

The two shared a surreptitious glance to the cellar door before Brook gave his nephew a shove to guide him away from the rest of the pastries and towards the sink and white-handled water pump that had been worn smooth over generations of use. When he tried to swallow his bite of food so that he could verbally implore his younger relative to clean up before their grandma returned, a strange sensation gave him pause. Almost like he couldn't quite close his mouth...

The young man reached up and felt along his jaw. Deft fingers touched against a line of bone angled in a way it shouldn't be. Teeth protruding outward, rather than lined neatly in his mouth. A visceral jolt ran through him. The skin beneath the short, soft fur of his face was warped and twisted, causing him to jerk his hand away in reflexive horror.

Pembrook tried to wrap his mind around the sudden disfigurement, and the wild rush of panic that came with it. But a dreaming mind often wasn't a rational one. Reality clashed with the surreal, and somewhere in that sudden spiral, the truth bled in.

Aldra shouldn't be here. He'd died. Along with Pemiri. Along with his entire clan. The whole of Highmoor.

"Wait." The word came out in a harsh, hastened slur of sound, impeded by a twisted jaw and a tongue that felt out of place. As if to banish the these hard facts, Pembrook moved forward and reached for Aldra, to confirm with touch that his nephew was still alive and well. Because if Aldra was real, then Pemiri would be walking up through the cellar doors any moment, to admonish the pair for horsing around and eating goods meant for the customers...

Before he could make that connection, the illusion broke. The warm, green and brown earthen tones of the bakery faded away. The sweet tang of honey and scent of fresh bread departed. Waking from his dream, Brook opened a pair of mismatched eyes and found himself staring at the sterile white ceiling of the recovery ward, the banks of overhead lights currently turned off in the early hours of the morning. Instead of the inviting crackle of an oven fire, he heard the soft shuffling of feet along nearby hallways, space that was separated only by tall partition panels. The hum of electricity was pervasive, as was the scent of cleaners and sterilizing chemicals.

Pembrook tried to close his eyes and force his mind to shut off. He tried to reach for the dream again, so that he could see his family one more time. He wanted to ask Aldra how his magic studies were going, or share an evening meal with is parents. He wanted the chance to say goodbye.

With a heavy breath and a throat clenched in sorrow, Brook wiped the wetness from his face and shrugged the covers off himself. He couldn't fall back to sleep now. But he also couldn't just lay there and fret away the hours until sunrise again. Without putting much thought into it, the firbolg sat up and slowly swung his legs off the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, partially to gather his limited strength, and partially to make sure that Ratchet wasn't currently on duty. When he didn't see the bright chartreuse plates of the resident CMO, Brook eased himself off the bed, found his shaky balance, and headed for the nearest route that would lead him out of the facility.