Swamp
The pain flares behind Wenomir's eyes for a while. After a few moments, however, Wenomir can feel someone's hand touch lightly on his shoulder. At its touch all the pain vanishes, as if whoever had put their hand on his shoulder was responsible for driving it away.
Pond
There is little enough light in the cave, and even less of it filters into the waters. It doesn't do much good, though. The pond water is filled with silt and floating debris, which obscure Mateo's vision to the point where he can barely see beyond the length of his arm. Everything sounds different, too. Lighter, but also heavier.
Mateo will feel it pass by him first. A wooshing, a sudden coolness around his legs as the water is displaced. And then it comes. Pond weeds surge up from the bottom of the pond, aiming to wrap themselves around his arms and legs again.
Desert
Oh boy. The fight with the dragon's finally done. Diinuldrum's remains fade away quickly, the bones and dust dissolving into ash which are lost as the wind picks them up and scatters them away.
In their place is a small pile of goods.
There are three swords, piled close together. Their hand-and-a-half hilts are encrusted with glittering blue scales, miniature versions of the dragon's. The hand guards, curving down from the base of the blade, are long fangs filed down so that they are dull and no longer pose a threat to the wielder. The blades themselves, razor sharp on one edge but not the other, are pointed at the top for stabbing and made of bone.
Next to them is a ring. A simple little thing, easily overlooked: Silver, with a small and pale saphire set in the top.
Enola is trapped. Unless I am mistaken, and I don't think I am, her legs are trapped in a giant block of ice. Countless shards of ice streak towards her exposed torso and head. She can deflect some of them with her blasts of electricity, but not all of them. Eventually, at least one finds its way home and all is darkness.
Elsewhere
Hours or moments later, Enola awakens face-down on a harsh carpet. It's dark-green fibres are coarse and grate against her skin. It's barely wider than she is - if she were to reach out with her arms, she could with no effort touch the cobblestone floor with both hands. Should she look up, she'll find herself in a hall. It is narrow but impossibly long. The wooden walls are covered in thick tapestries, which show breathtakingly detailed and lifelike scenes of great warriors and beasts engaged in mortal kombat. At the far end of the hall, a woman stands. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but spills down her back anyway. She is dressed in brass and steel armour, which shines in the light of the bowl of burning coals, set in a pedestal at her side.
Somewhere Else
Diinuldrum awakens in a similar hall, identical in every way except that it is much wider than the one Freddy and Enola awoke in, in order to accommodate the dragon's massive size. The Goddess stands at the end of the hall, as before, waiting patiently by her bowl of coals.
Hills
Mercutio allows himself a soft sigh. He really should have seen this coming. Honestly, what was he thinking? It was just like a mortal, really. Ignoring a service - a life-saving one, even - in order to peruse some sort of childish vendetta. The devil had hoped forging some sort of alliance would help matters, but that appeared to not be the case.
What a chore.
By the time Thenadier starts speaking, Mercutio has already put some distance between them. The shot is hardly point-blank, but then, that hardly matters. By the time he finishes his little speech, Mercutio dissapears in a cloud of sulferic blue smoke. He reappears a fair bit away, by a tree untouched by Thenadier's fire. Lifting his arm. His bird of paradise flies off, soaring up in the sky to circle around him and joining the four cloud-rams.
Which in turn surge down, horns lowered. All four of them charge Thenadier from above with curled, massive horns.
Meanwhile, Mercutio shrugs off his coat, hanging it from a branch. Underneath, his black button-up shirt has short sleeves that leave his blue, lightly-scaled arms bare. Lines of text are tattooed in white from his wrists to his elbows, and as he holds his hands out before him they begin to glow. They snake down his arms, pooling between his hands into a small orb of light. The light elongates and grows thin, finally taking the form of a bastard sword. However, Mercutio doesn't rush right in. He hangs back, standing by the tree and watching from afar. He would wait, first. See how Thenadier fared against four cloud-rams at once.