"Nope," Dexter said cheerfully, bounding up the stairs after Solomon and China, "but Rafe did. And his tastes better than Corrival's, too." He said it almost distractedly, because he was busy eyeing the pair in front of them. They looked, he had to admit, good together. Which wasn't surprising, given they were both born into noble families, with the same sort of unconscious confidence and grace he himself had never been able to master. It still made the Adept grin to himself and wonder who he could rope into laying down a little wager.

"Eh, it's about ..." He measured with his hands, tilting his head as he tried to visualise. "About a block large. I can't tell you much about the layout except that it changed on a dime. Maybe you can make it freeze or something."

John Doe trailed behind them all, at a complete loss. Technically speaking, he did still have some rooms to mop; in fact, Tipstaff had caught him halfway through one and told him he was needed urgently downstairs, on Elder's orders. Part of him said he should mention this and return to work.

The rest of him didn't want to, and not just because it was an Elder's order. Or ... invitation? The fact of the matter was that his routine had been gloriously unsettled. These new Elders were intimidating, and apparently powerful, and completely incomprehensible--and funny. Compelling. John said nothing, because part of him wanted to know what was happening next. He wasn't unaware that he was probably the only one out of their little circle of friends that would see whatever this great secret was.

But he wasn't one of them. He was just a janitor, and these ... these were the greats. The leaders, the heroes of the war John was too young to remember. So he jumped when Elder Ravel dropped back beside him.

"Why Erskine Ravel?" he asked without thinking, a semi-panicked dodge, and then cringed. "I mean, uh ..."