“Rastofarius!” she exclaimed in pure delight seeing her old uncle, now for the first time, since he had died.
“Rasty,” she hesitated, “this does not mean what I think it might mean does it?”
She searched his weathered face for an explanation. His blue eyes shone back at her and watered over.
Although of Elven heritage, Rastofarius barely wore the height of a dwarf and his form was stout like the tree stumps of the grange. He was not dressed in his usual work-a-day garb, but in a cloak of feathers pinned at the neck by a scorpion clasp toggling its weight with great style.
In his left hand he held up a mirror and she could see that it was of the Glock.
These mirrors did not reflect back any image you might expect were you to turn around and look behind you … they were mirrors of a different nature, painted with the metal from a different moon; and they showed images of what could not ordinarily be seen: windows into other worlds, usually it was only the dead who could see them.
“Oh God!" she said abruptly. “Then it is true? That bloody troll has ended my life?”
-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances
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