You find yourself in a cold, grainy environment. What's this? You could've sworn a minute ago that you'd been doing something else. Perhaps it was a dream?
As your eyes adjust you're met with the sleek, modern design of a 20th-21st century art museum; a big, blank room with a high, glass-domed ceiling. The walls are a soft grey-white and adorned with various artworks--paintings, embroidery, printed digital art, all depicting different scenes (sometimes familiar, sometimes not). The floor beneath you is a deep steel-grey marble, and though there's lots of windows, you can't see anything out of them. It's darker than the dead of night out there. There's a big arch opening into another exhibit on the far end of the room.
As the panic starts to set in, you idly wonder how a place so airy and spacious could feel so very claustrophobic.
It might have to with the others in the room, who you're just now noticing. To your right you see a young man with clear blue eyes dressed in white and blue, a tiny, quiet girl in red, holding a single rose, a rather large tin can with three glowing eyes and big, mechanical arms, and a gruff-looking fellow who looked as if he'd dropped right out of the weird west. To your left there's a huge black & white wild cat, whose shimmering coat seems to consume the light around it, a young, normal looking guy with a nice hair cut and an agent's suit, a little impish bloke donning a big red hat, and a blue-grey haired teen in a school girl's uniform.
What the hell is going on?
---
"Urgh.....ugh?"
The world was spinning, and it was all cold, city colors. This was certainly not the tree he'd been sleeping under.
Where was he, anyways? Had the Mymble taken some pity on him and drugged him back to her little cottage, after a long night of ale and parlor tricks? And if so, why was she shining so much light in his face? Was he passed out outside of a tavern, being assaulted by the chilly twilight-grey of the morning light on his face? He certainly felt lightheaded enough to believe he was hung over, and seeing as how he didn't have much of a recollection of his immediate memories, he might as well be.
He was certain that he was slouched against the wall of a tavern, so he supposed turning away would help--and he did, and it didn't. It seemed as if the light was coming from directly above him, so was it midday? Had he slept through the entire morning? It wouldn't be the first time.
The Joxter pulled the brim of his hat past his eyes, stubbornly refusing to open them. Sleeping through midday was okay with him.
What wasn't okay with him was the shifting of the walls and the realization that the walls were actually the legs of someone else, and not a wall after all. It wasn't too great when the legs knocked off his hat and revealed a big, grey museum, filled with people he didn't know, either. He could care a great deal about that, a great deal indeed.
"Where am I?" He asked no one in particular.
